Savateurs
by LexLuthor13
Summary: Scott Lang was Ant-Man, and an Avenger, and part of the Fantastic Four. And there were other things: a wife, a daughter. But when the Taskmaster decides to bring it all down, Scott Lang and the Avengers might be the only thing standing in the way!
1. Losses

**Author's Note: **The genesis of this story, the latest in my attempt to explain and justify Scott Lang as a part of the Marvel Universe, came from three sources. One is Frank Miller's hugely influential _Daredevil_ run from 1979-1983 (and 1986, recalling _Born Again_); another is Brian Bendis' _Alias_ series which starred Jessica Jones and, later, Scott Lang; the third is Allen Heinberg's _Young Avengers. _How these different eras of Marvel history come to bear in this fictionalisation will, I hope, be clear by story's end.

Try to take this one as a companion to my other stories, _Also I Love You_ and _Powers_, both of which feature Scott prominently. Thematically, I suppose this is the last hurrah in my 'statements about characters I like' project—much the same as I earlier did with The Sentry, Norman Osborn, the Young Avengers, and even Lex Luthor. Structurally, this is in reverse order; it starts with the end of Scott and Peggy's relationship and ends with—well, you'll see. Elsewhere Stan Lee once wrote that he based Avengers Mansion on the Frick Museum—so I did too. Chronologically, the brunt of this takes place precisely around the year 2000 and indeed within the space of a few months. As far as character models go, I based eggy around Jennifer Morrison (of _House_ and lately _How I Met Your Mother_) and Scott on Timothy Olyphant (of _Deadwood_ and _Justified_): I've also tried to channel as much Robert Downey Jr as I could into Stark. Clint Barton, I imagined to be a stockier kind of Steve Buscemi. Maybe. A further note on the title: it's French. Means 'kickers' or practitioners of the frightfully awesome martial art Savate. It's a theme as well as a shout-out. If you figure it out by the end of this first chapter, I'll tell you how it all ends. Enjoy…

* * *

_**STARK Enterprises  
**_Coney Island NY  
Inter-Departmental Memo

13 August 2004

From: Susan Bortz, HR  
To: Tony Stark, CEO

Re: Scott Lang files

Tony,

Attached you'll find the requested files on Scott Lang. I've compressed as much as I could pull from the files in the Mansion into the breakdown you see below. I've also filed requests for the public record from the Courthouse, but who knows how long that will take. At any rate, facsimiles of the originals are attached; it's my sense that these are what Mr Lang got from the Court in the first place and kept in his closet safe. I've also called Mrs Burdick's attorney, and he was at pains to stress he has zero interest in this case. So much for that. If you need anything else, do let me know.

-Susan

SB/Att:

_Scott Lang:_

_b. 17 March 1970_

_-Coral Gables HS 1985-8 (accelerated Post-Secondary)_

_-MIT, 1988-91: BS+MS, Electrical Engineering & Computer Science_

_-Boeing Aeronautics, Seattle WA: Consultant, EOT: 1991_

_-Married Peggy Rae Burdick, 30 January 1991 (Divorce granted 12 October 2000; relevant copies appended)_

_-Daughter Cassandra born 5 May 1991_

_-Inmate, Northern State Prison, Newark New Jersey: 1992 (nine months sentence, commuted, good behaviour)_

_-Stark Industries, Technical Consultant/Electronics Development/'Avenger': 1993-94_

_-Fantastic Four, Inc: Technical Consultant, 1994-9_

_-Stark Industries: Cyber-Security Analyst/'Avenger', 1995-2004_

_d. 2004 (age 33): interred, 890 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, 10021 (aka 'Avengers Mansion'): see attached files_

* * *

In The Family Court, County of New York, New York  
Domestic Relations Department

Peggy R Lang  
Plaintiff

-V-

Scott EH Lang  
Defendant

A divorce final evidentiary hearing was held before the Court on this 12th day of October 2000.  
Plaintiff was present with counsel.  
Defendant was present with counsel.  
The Guardian Ad Litem was present.

Parties have reached an agreement regarding issues of property division, custody, parenting time, child support/alimony, health insurance, and tax status.  
Attorney Murdock recited Agreement for the record. Attorney Humboldt concurred.  
Parties were sworn in.

Court recognised the right of trial and inquired both parties' understanding and reasoning and conferred with Depositions (appended) of Defendant, Plaintiff, Guardian Ad Litem, and minor child Cassandra. Plaintiff had filed for divorce in Supreme Court of the state of New York on grounds of irreconcilable differences. Plaintiff later filed supplementary charges with Family Court child pertaining to the minor child Cassandra M Lang: child endangerment, criminal recklessness, and wilful destruction of property. Court denied Plaintiff's assertion of supplementary charges and dismissed charges thereafter. Court decided further that the marriage is irrevocably dissolved per the Agreement and Depositions herewith appended.  
Counsel inquired of each party understanding the Agreement as cited: that Agreement is in best interest of both parties and of minor child Cassandra. Agreement is binding forthwith. Further Agreements on child support/alimony, custody, health insurance and tax status are appended and approved.  
These entries are the final order of this court,

[signed]

Thomas R. Coffin, Judge

TRC:att

Certified Copies to:

Plaintiff Peggy R Lang, 149 Willow Street, Brooklyn Heights 11201  
Counsel for Ms Lang: Donald Humboldt; Secker, Wisecup & Newman LLC, 200 W 45th Street #330, New York, 10019

Defendant Scott E.H. Lang, 890 Fifth Avenue, New York, 10021

Counsel for Mr Lang: Matthew Murdock; Nelson & Murdock LLC, 347 W 36th Street, New York, 10019

Guardian Ad Litem, Martha Watson, Esquire, 200 Park Avenue, New York, 10017

* * *

**Scott & Peggy.**

**2001.**

The Mansion hung empty, except for Jarvis doddering around downstairs with a feather duster. The rest of the team was off in Wundagore or Latveria or somewhere else Scott couldn't care to think. Really. We'll need Ant-Man's unique brand of genius, Cap had said. Come on Scott get your mind of things. That was Tony. Couldn't they see? Things were different now

Couldn't they see his world had ended?

So he stayed. Pym went in his place.

Scott stood at mirror, mounted on loose slats above the bureau, staring back at himself. The stubble, the frown. The flabbiness of him. Tucked under each arm and in each hand were wads of clothing. Shirts and underpants he was stuffing into the bureau's shallow drawers.

He sighed.

Stark made sure the team members had lodgings appropriate to their tenure on the team. It gave Scott security. Cassie a place to come and be herself on the custody weekends. Stark, it made feel good. Tony needed that sort of thing. Stark was always looking out for people.

Scott stopped in the middle of unpacking his shirts, his pants, his underwear, and looked at the ceiling. Sighed.

_Home_, he thought. _Jiggity-jig._

"Doesn't feel like it," he said to no one, and kept unpacking.

A light knock on the door. Scott didn't turn around to see. Probably Jarvis with another herbal tea.

Then she cleared her throat, and Scott turned to see her.

Peggy.

The doorjamb creaked when she leant against it.

Peggy. In her usual humourless conservative look. Grey trousers that flared out at the bottom, covering impossible stilettos, straightening her posture like a Madame Alexander doll and puffing out her chest. Confident, busty, and in charge, that's her alright. Peggy never did the glass ceiling thing: she was too confident, too bitchy for it. She came crashing through the ceiling handily. Five months after moving to New York she was in charge of the Tri-State March of Dimes. Sad place for her. A good place for a bad person.

_Pig blood for a pig_, he thought out of nowhere.

_But I digress_, he thought. _Enough with the venom. Paperwork's done. The bitch can't hurt you anymore._

He slammed the last shirt into the drawer and kept his eyes on her.

"What will you do?" she said.

He said nothing. Kept his head low and kept jamming clothes in the drawers.

"Technically, I'm still an employee of Stark Industries. So if Cassie needs braces, we're covered. About a new place, well, you're looking at it." He waved a hand over his shoulder, disinterested.

"I meant—"

He glanced at her. "What?"

She cracked a thin smile. A premature are-we-okay affair. The kind you only bring out to soften some blow.

"I didn't want to hurt you," she said.

He stopped unpacking and locked eyes with her. Drew a deep breath.

"Yeah. I bet you didn't."

"Scott—"

"So we're doing this, okay—"

"Oh, Scott—"

"So tell me when you decided that divorcing me and taking my daughter away from me wouldn't hurt me? Was this before or after you decided to start flirting up that pig cop—"

"He's not a pig cop, Scott, maybe you should think about that! And she's not your daughter!"

He gawked at her.

She stared right back. Knew exactly what she said, and what she meant. The realization of property, or the appropriation thereof. Certainly the argument had come up in meetings with Humboldt. Peggy wringing her hands and asking Humboldt if she was stealing Scott's daughter away. Humboldt saying, well, no, not really, and if you play on your weakness then you won't get what you want. Not what you need, or even what Cassie needs, but if you think you're stealing her, well, then, that kind of makes Scott's case for him.

Which was true.

Old Humboldt. Never taking his own position. Poor Peggy Rae Blankenship had never had a venomous bone in her body. Not before meeting Scott. Certainly not until he wound up in prison for a stupid crime. A stupid crime for a stupid man.

"She's our daughter, Scott," Peggy said. "Just so you know."

Scott was holding a stack of shirts. He threw them to the floor.

"Don't you dare condescend to me, Peggy! This is your fault and don't you dare pretend otherwise—"

"How many more weekends was she going to spend here before one of Pym's killer robots ripped her head off?"

Scott was silent after this. A long, deep silence. Not defeated, not deflated. More simmering.

His eyes burned hatred, yes, that was the poetic device he thought to use. And his head hurt. The muscles hurt, frozen in a severe scowl. His teeth ached from the clenching from the past few minutes. His fillings were starting to stress and creak. Spines of pain shot up and down his jaw. He wondered, if he clenched hard enough, would he break his teeth.

When he spoke, finally, it was quiet and sociopathic. "And living with you is safer?"

"Yes."

"Because of Blake?"

Peggy sighed and rolled her eyes. All at once. She half-turned as if to leave but merely leant against the doorjamb.

"This isn't about Blake."

Scott cocked an eye. "Isn't it? I saw the way you looked at him. And all those, uh, breaks you and I took. Where were you going, Peg?"

She started shaking her head. "Don't."

"You're really going to tell me you drove out to Montauk to visit your mom?"

"Scott."

"Let me get this straight," he said. At first he was quiet, but every word took on more anger. "Do you know how many people I keep safe? How many lives this team saves? A New York pig fucking cop is safer for you and your daughter to live with—safer!—than an Avenger! Safer than living in a mansion with Captain America and the god of fucking thunder! Do you know what I do for this city? For this planet? How many times I saved the day? How many black days we stopped—me and the people in this building? Every moment of my life, for the last ten years, has been—for you! For you and for Cassie!"

She sighed and sniffled. Sat on the floor and hugged her legs.

Scott was three feet away, staid at the foot of the bed. Paralysed with rage and towering over her.

She was almost afraid he was going to take a swing at her. Almost.

"How many times do I have to get your attention, Peggy? How many times do I have to leap in front of you waving my hands just so you can acknowledge me?"

He quieted. Kept the intense, terrifying look.

"Peggy."

She groaned.

"Peggy. Answer the question. Living with a New York cop is better and safer for our daughter than living with me. True or false."

She sniffled again, and looked up at him. Wiped a wisp of hair from her face.

"Yes."

He took a deep breath and paced to the far side of the room. The bay window stared our over the Mansion's front and the Statuary Garden. He stared at the statue of Pym and clenched his jaw again.

"And the rest of it, then? What about the rest of our life?"

"I loved you," she said. "Once."

He shot around. Eyes wide and savage. "Once?"

"You changed," she said, and shook her head. "Prison. This. Even the Fantastic Four. You threw yourself into that. I can forgive you for letting me slide, because my life doesn't matter." Pause. "Not to you. But you let Cassie down."

His mouth curled open and downward in some savage snarl. "Oh come on—"

She shot to her feet in a flash. Matched his wild, belligerent gaze.

"You know that's exactly what this is about, Scott!"

"You never had a fucking clue! Otherwise you wouldn't have gone after that waste of space and we'd never have this conversation!"

"There _is_ no conversation, Scott!"

She sighed and clenched her jaw.

"There is no conversation," she repeated, this time quieter. "There's just you yelling at me, like a little boy!"

"Oh lighten up! I'm not the one that got bored one afternoon and grabbed my ankles for the closest thing in a uniform!"

She threw a hand up, flippant. "Then _what_, Scott? What are you so upset about?"  
"You think your daughter isn't safe here! You think that a man that punched out Hitler isn't capable of protecting her! Say it!"

"This isn't about Hitler, Scott!"

"Superheroes are an excuse to take my daughter from me?"

"Jesus Christ—"

"What else are you going to take from me? You want my blood?"

"Just stop—"

"Go ahead, take it! Climb right on inside!"

"God damn it Scott, when does it _stop_ being okay? When do _you_ get a clue in that fucking head of yours that there are _lives_ here? Why do you always have to be so goddamn right? Answer me!"

Silence.

He looked away from her. Back to the window. Better to look away. Better to look down at statues that couldn't even talk, let alone talk back.

"Answer me that!"

He said nothing. Outside a breeze wafted through the trees, casting some off their branches, victims of the coming winter. He looked at the Pym statue. The trees and their stripped branches. The grey sky, riddled with high and motionless clouds. He breathed deep again.

She was still rolling. Railing. Quiet and intense. Her eyes never left his.

"If you can guarantee that it's a better life here for her than it is with me and Blake, then say that, Scott. Stop hiding behind your friends—face me for once and admit that you make mistakes, too! Answer the question!"

Scott looked down. And released his clenched fists, like so much of a Don McLean lyric.

"Scott."

Everything hurt.

He looked out the window, Trees still swaying in the breeze.

_Oblivious little markers that life goes on without you, Scottie._

"So visitation is Saturday," he said. Inflected it just enough to denote a question.

"Yes."

"Okay," he said and turned. Cleared his throat in a quiet and polite gesture and looked at her.

"I'll bring Cassie by around noon," she said. "Will that work?"

He nodded and said, "Yeah. Yeah."

She was buttoning her jacket and stepping out. Scott followed her and laid a ginger hand on the door, stayed in the threshold.

She paused at the top of the stairs and looked back. Slowly.

"Good-bye, Scott."

He merely waved with his free hand. When she had gone, he ran it through his hair. Shut the door quietly. An alarm box above the door, no bigger than a Zippo, let out a pleasant monotone. StarkTech protecting the room of a beloved Avenger. One of Earth's Mightiest.

_Yeah_, he thought, and sat on the edge of the bed. _Earth's Mightiest._

He fell back on the duvet, the expansive sinking type that required every feather from a dozen geese.

After a while, the tears came.

* * *

**Scott, Clint & Tony.**

**2000.**

_Lunch with Stark today. Clint joined in, too._

_Jarvis set out a nice spread. Ham sandwiches in little triangles, with ginger ale. I almost wrote down white wine, but remembered. He was decidedly on the wagon again._

Anyway.

Stark.

Still powerful. Still in command. Commanded every room he walked into. Every eye, every up-thrust bosom, every baby there was to be kissed. If he'd wanted to he could've bought the Presidency. As it stood he left it alone. Said it would've been a pay cut. Which is true, or so Scott liked to think.

For Scott, and for the rest of them too, he was still just Tony. Scott owed him a lot, which is not what this is about. _If anything_, Scott thought, _he's less Iron Man. I hate to say it but I like to think he's my friend. That's not too presumptive. Him and Reed._

_The last two I've got left._

And of course the rest of the tri-state area, which on a good day—or any other day really—houses about 300 completely overpowered super-people just waiting for an ass to kick. 300 super people on his Christmas card list, as he was on theirs.

_Dear Scott, thinking of you_—along with a round-robin holoprojection from Sue, Reed, Johnny, Ben and Franklin (with a cute little '4½' in his own handwriting, no less!)

_Happy Christmas, Scott_—from Union Jack and the rest of the Downing Crew.

_Happy Holidays, Scott_—this one from Pym. Good and politically correct.

The divorce condolences stopped coming after a few weeks. It's a busy life, after all. So many killer robots and conquerors in metal suits to keep at bay. So many alimony checks to write.

Stark leant back in his seat and flattened his tie against his chest. A flat grey suit, with thin little pinstripes. Bought on the fly by some assistant he hurried down to Macy's or Brooks Brothers with his check book and a single instruction: 'nothing ugly'. That was Stark. Sitting there in his flat grey suit and his broad yellow tie, all of it close in on him, tailored exquisitely as they say. Filling him out.

And Scott in his reliable blue blazer, bought when HW ran the White House, and a frumpy striped shirt. Yes, that's the word. Downright frumpy.

Clint sat between them, in track pants and a thin t-shirt that read Dartmouth on it. He nursed an ice cold Pabst the whole time.

"So you lost this one," Stark said.

"Thanks for that."

"Sorry." More reasonable, he said, "Did she have anything to say for herself?"

Scott shook his head. "She was concerned about Cassie."

"I met your daughter," Stark said. "Scrappy. Probably good in a fight."

"She's seven," Scott said.

"Give it a few years," Clint said. "She'll turn into a copy of her dear old dad all right. You just wait."

Scott looked to one side. At the swimming pool on the backside of the Mansion, Wanda and Jan lounged, sunbathing, in turn watching Clint. He had his back to them: no temptation, and no interest. Until next week anyway, when he decides to start messing with Jan again.

"No," Scott said. "Cassie loves the weekends, but I don't want her to be one of us."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Oh come on, Scott, that's a little too poetic. The girl loves you. Loves coming here. At the risk of a golden family moment, I say we indulge her."

Stark looked at Clint judiciously, then back at Scott. "And custody?"

"Shared, for the moment. It could change."

Stark said, "I know Coffin," and he tinged it with just enough venom to make Scott believe it.

Clint: "How?"

"Way back."

"How?"

"Dinner party. Incredible Hulk. It was a big thing."

"What kind of thing?"

"Respect the thing, okay?"

Clint shrugged and finished his Pabst in one swig.

"Anyway," Scott said.

"When she does come to visit," Stark said, "I'll have Jarvis make up a room for her."

Scott smiled. Thin and fond. "Yeah." A moment later: "Thank you, Tony."

He stood and patted Scott's shoulder. On his way toward the pool, naturally.

"Eat something, will you, we're paying for this stuff."

And he strolled away, clapping his hands in Jan's general direction.

Scott glanced at Jan, across the yard—now lying on her back, her stomach pale and unflattering. "I thought she was still with Hank."

Clint waved at her; she doesn't wave back. "Well that's the kicker, isn't it? You know what it's like around here."

Scott took a drink. "Do I?"

"Sure." Clint smiled and leant back in his chair. "You're—you know what you are, Scott? You're like Charlie Watts, okay? The drummer for the Stones? Still married to his first wife, still happy and pretty low-key. Guy didn't even enjoy the bunnies at the Mansion—he just played pool with Hefner! Even I enjoyed the bunnies at the Mansion!"

"Uh. You know, I hate to be selfish, but what does this have to do with me?"

"Fine," he said, "but you get my point. You had a life, a kid!"

"A criminal record?"

He waved his hand and said, "Join the club. Remember when we fired Hank from the team?"

"I'm pretty sure I wasn't around then," Scott said.

"Really? Huh." Then Clint pulled himself back on track. "I was trying to make a point about our, ahem, genetic cross-pollination."

"Nice."

"Yeah," Clint said and smiled, self-satisfied. "You like it?"

"S'alright."

"Anyway! This is my point about Hank and Jan. They're an old married couple, okay? Tony, everyone knows how many girls he digs up. The Human Torch, Namor, me, even Jan. These are all good examples of horrible role models."

"Well that's grim," Scott said.

"That's what I'm talking about!" he said and threw his hands up. "I hate to say it but that judge's got a point. This is a hell of a life, okay? We live in a big-ass mansion in the middle of the greatest city in the world. We beat up killer robots and time-travelling idiots and guys with jewelry in their gloves. We sleep and eat and fight together..."

_And?_

"And?"

"And," he said and then he paused. "It's just awesome. Okay? There. Guilty."

Scott leant back and looked judiciously at his ginger ale. "Don't feel bad, Clint. I understand what you're saying. It is a pretty cool life."

"The coolest!"

"But I liked my old life. I liked that. There. Guilty."

Clint changed in this moment. The gallant smile went away and his eyes glazed over. He was still listening but since it was Clint it looked like an act. It wasn't.

_I think._

"Well," Clint said. "You still get to love her. Now it's just for a court-ordered period of time."

Scott looked up at the sky. Through the tangle of oak trees. Even in the middle of Manhattan—so little sound. So little interference. The Mansion is in the middle of everything, and in the middle of nowhere.

_Deep, deep for a guy like me to think that, but still._

The birds sang hypnotic in the trees and a breeze kicked up every now and then.

Noon of a summer day. Perfect weather for going Avengering.

Scott finished off the ginger ale.

"Yeah," he said.

A shadow came across him and Clint.

Jarvis.

"Sir, you have a call on the primary line."

Clint's face contorted. "We have a hotline?"

Scott said, "Did he say who he was, Jarvis?"

"Mr Murdock, sir, who was at pains to stress—"

Scott frowned and stood and stormed toward the Mansion. All in the same motion. "Thanks, Jarvis."

Clint, yelling across the yard: "What does he want?"

"Oh, I know what he wants."

* * *

"Scott, are you there?"

Murdock's voice, halfway across town. Hiding behind his oak desk and his rich suit, asking Scott if he's alright.

"Uh yeah."

"Okay. The Guardian Ad Litem's submitted her report. The final custody hearing will take place Friday morning. Eleven-thirty. Okay?"

"Will this change the shared custody order from before?"

Another moment. Scott takes the time to sit on the floor and run a hand through his hair. It occurred to him that his head hurt and he wondered if whatever congested vessel was causing the pain would just explode and take him with it.

"Matt."

"I don't know, Scott."

"Come on," Scott said. "Anything? Something that might, uh, help me sleep?"

"Scott, you know these things aren't—"

"Yeah," Scott said. "Figured. Uh. I'll see you Friday. Or do you want me to come by tomorrow for a brief, or what?"

"Stop in the office Friday morning. We'll have breakfast and sort it all out. Then we'll head over together."

"Okay."

"See you then," Murdock said. Click.

Scott clicked the disconnect button and throw the receiver across the room.

"Goodbye."

Another long sigh. Both hands through his hair. He was still on the floor and leaning against the wall. More precisely, the billiard green paint above deep oak wainscoting in the front foyer.

He looked to one side. The side leading to the front foyer and the entrance.

Clint, there loitering by the corner and the Warhol quarter print of Iron Man.

"I'm sorry," he said. And waits. "Um. Care to…talk about it?"

"No," Scott said, and gaped at the ceiling. Swirled drywall and faux-gold plaster, interspersed with crystal chandeliers heading down toward the west parlour. "I want to beat something up."

Clint cracked a smile. A less timid one than before.

"Should I get the Goliath suit or hang with this?" he asked and gestured to his Hawkeye mask.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	2. Tasks I

**Author's Note: **This chapter borrows one-panel-wonder Judge Coffin from Frank Miller's _Daredevil_ run, particularly issue #163 where Murdock fought the Incredible Hulk (something we alluded to last chapter with Stark). We referenced Scott (as Ant-Man) fighting the Super-Adaptoid with the Heroes for Hire, which occurred in _Heroes For Hire_ (vol.1) #7, by John Ostrander and Pascual Ferry. Peggy's family living in East Egg, Long Island is a shameless reference to _The Great Gatsby_: the idea is that East Egg and Gatsby himself exist(ed) in the Marvel Universe. We also took heavy inspiration from Judge Wexler of _Ghostbusters II_ for Coffin's characterisation—and parts of the film _Mrs Doubtfire_ (as good a primer on divorce and its effects as any out there) for the judge's dialogue. About the guardian ad litem: this is a real-life thing, an attorney which courts often appoint as a neutral third-party to oversee the family particulars of, and act in the best interest of the child(ren) in, a divorce and/or custody case (though the concept has applications in other types of proceedings). The so-called GAL visits with both sides, compiles a report of recommended action, and submits it to the judge, who then considers it in his decision. And all this I've explain in case you think I'm somehow making it all up. I'll say this though: I've made our GAL here little better than a Gloria Allred stand-in. If it makes you feel any better, she doesn't show up anymore hereafter. Maybe. One more thing: shared custody is only the beginning. And since our little story is in mostly backwards order (anachronic, at any rate), it's even sort of the end. Makes you think…

* * *

**Scott and Cassie.**

**1999.**

Reading Cassie a bedtime story. _Where the Wild Things Are. _Perched on the edge of her bed and holding himself up with one shaking leg—shaking from the strain of holding it there for the past twenty minutes. She's bundled under a pink throw and another blanket, this one goose down and the colour of grape juice. Which she's told him lately is her favourite.

He finished the book and set it on the nightstand quietly. On a slant, next to the half-empty glass of grape juice, naturally. Settled into bed next to her and kissed the top of her head.

"Do you remember when you were little, Cassie? Well. Littler."

She nodded and said, "Uh huh."

"I'd give you a thumbs-up before bed every night," he said and smiled. "And you'd just point at me."

"I couldn't do a thumbs-up then," she said.

"True. But it was okay. I'd just point back."

He was silent after this. Looked around the room absently. The Raggedy Ann lamp on the bureau, the Iron Man poster on the far wall and the Backstreet Boys one next to it. The lavender air freshener under the bay window.

He breathed deep and hugged her.

"Daddy, I heard you and Mommy fighting last night. Bigger than ever. What's going to happen?

He waited. She was seven years old. Old enough to learn what it was. Old enough to know that he wouldn't be Dad—at least not in the sense that he had been. Then he drove that thought from his mind. _No_, he thought, _you're still Dad. Still important. Especially to her._

Old enough.

Maybe.

Cassie rubbed her eyes.

"Your mom and I, uh…we don't get along so well."

She said, "But," and then stopped. "I thought you loved each other."

"We do," he said. "We do. But right now your mom and I need to sort of figure out where we are. Does this make sense?"

"Okay."

"Now," he said and put on a fake smile. "You want to go see Uncle Tony this weekend?"

"And Aunt Clint?"

Scott let out a hearty laugh. His joke had finally taken. "Yes, sweetie. Aunt Clint. You give him a big hug and tell him that, too."

* * *

**Scott and the Taskmaster I**

**2000.**

He didn't remember leaving the Mansion. Putting on his boots and his jeans and his jacket and walking right out the front doors. Telling Jarvis he'd be back whenever. That part he admitted, deep down, to liking. The irresponsibility of it all. Room was covered. Board was covered. It was university with monsters. Avengers Mansion in the heart of the city, and all that was required was that you show up to fight the monsters.

Which Scott Lang could do.

So here he was. Walking down 48th Street in the dead of night. There were lights, the glow of the city all around him, quiet and warm. The way the buildings stretched into the night and the way the sounds of cars and taxis and trucks all faded into the sky. The city never slept, but sometimes it went down.

_A cat-nap_, he thought and made a wistful little smile.

He found a hotdog vendor by a vacant brownstone. Slathered three dogs in relish and wolfed them down. Tipped the guy extra.

Found himself a bench to sit on, and stayed there for a long while.

Too long, maybe.

He thought about Cassie and Peggy. And Blake. The cop. The new man in Peg's life.

"Shit," he said and slouched. Rested his elbows on his knees and entwined his fingers.

The way he and Peggy used to go to the old Orange Drive-In outside Coral Gables. They used to have Horror double-shots, especially in the summers. And if the night was brilliant and it wasn't hurricane season, they'd take a blanket and lay on the hood of his old IROC-Z.

_The Killer Camaro, _Mike and Shi called it.

He smiled.

Horror film double-shots. Something new, or newer, and a classic. _The Shining_ and the Klaus Kinski _Nosferatu_. _Creature From the Black Lagoon_ and _The Raven_—the black and white one, with Vincent Price and a really young Nicholson. Grab popcorn, or bring your own. It was the Eighties, spend money where you wanted.

Sitting on the hood of the Killer Camaro. Digging through the popcorn. And when Nicholson started hacking that bathroom door down…

She'd grab him tight and wouldn't let go.

He sniffled a bit and looked back at the sky.

And then he heard footsteps. Slowing as they neared him, and then a jacket, a duster, rustling as it folded and the person inside it sat at the far edge of the bench. Out of arm's reach. Inside earshot.

A long moment passed.

"Well," Scott said.

"I heard about your divorce," the man said.

Scott looked at him. A slow crane of the neck and an unsurprised expression.

"Yeah?"

"Barton. We talk."

Annoyed, Scott said, "I find that unlikely."

"I trained him for a brief time, you know. I kind of stole him away from Duquesne. Way back. Not that he'd tell you. You were still young and happy."

"I still am young," Scott said.

"And the other part?"

That shut him up. He balled the hotdog wrapper in one hand and clenched his fist. When he opened it again, the wrapper was out of sight.

"That's good," the man said. "You figured out how to direct the Pym particles."

"I had some time to spare," Scott said and stared at his open palm. "Came in handy in the Microverse. This was after you and I fought."

"Ah," the man said and nodded. "Right."

"Why are you here?"

"Like I said. Heard about your wife. Figured your Avengers weren't going to be very helpful. The only thing they know how to do is fight."

Scott frowned. "Again. I find this highly unlikely."

"Barton," the man said. "He's a spoilsport."

Scott sighed. "So this is my life now?"

"Pretty much," the man said and slouched back on the bench. Threw one arm over the back and peeled the varnish off idly. "It's a fun old life. You chose it. And I mean, really chose it. You stole the suit, you paid your time. Hell, I'll amend it. Choosing is a little passive, y'know. You reached out and took it. The old five finger discount."

"I was trying to do a good thing."

"Steal a helpless idiot's suit and hock it for parts?"

"My daughter," Scott said. "She was dying."

"Heard that too," the man said.

"Then tell me something new."

The man leant forward and plucked a fallen leaf from his trouser leg. Wiped his nose and glanced at Scott. Then at the street.

"You know what I am?" he asked. "It's rhetorical, don't answer. I'm an optimist. An opportunist. I think the two go hand in hand, don't you?"

Scott shrugged.

"I find something that interests me. Something I need. And I get it. Or people who do the same, they come to me and I help them get what they want." He paused. "I guess I'm Santa, then. Huh."

"You impersonated Captain America," Scott said. "As near as I can tell, you've trained every single professional pain in my ass that ever carried a gun and decided to aim it at the Mansion. Don't give me this Sainted Physician bullshit."

The man shrugged. "Fair enough." He stood and flattened out his rumpled denim. "I was sorry about your wife upping sticks. I've got a guy uptown says her new beau's a cop at the 14th Precinct. That right?"

Scott gave a meek nod.

"Well," the man said and stood. "You decide you want to teach this son of a bitch a lesson…you know where I am."

"Do I?"

The man smiled and pointed at Scott as he walked away.

"Sure. Just shine the Taskmaster signal."

* * *

Scott returned to the Mansion and stopped in the foyer. Slouched in the davenport near the East Library. Sighed and ran his hands over his face. Through his hair.

He remembered asking Peggy out. Their first date.

He choked up a bit at the next part of that thought:

Their first date which had ended in disaster.

Her and him naked in the back of the Killer Camaro.

_It should have been more meaningful_, he thought. _Not just about…that._

Nope. Just animal intensity and an hour and a half of I Love You and Oh My God and Holy Hell. The basis of their life together: a shared moment of heat in the back of a banger. And an adult life spent drifting apart. To such an extent that he was getting sympathy from a killer.

He shook his head and yawned.

_What a life.

* * *

_

**Scott and the Judge.**

**2000.**

Thomas Coffin was an unusual sight. Not that Scott spent a lot of time thinking what a judge on the Family Court of New York would look like, but this hunched specimen was hardly the expectation. Thomas Coffin. Small and taken into himself, rather like Hawking in his wheelchair, Scott thought. Face worn and deeply wrinkled. Glasses dangling on the edge of his nose, with lenses so small they could hardly be seen to see anything at all. That explained the frown, the permanent scowl that somehow got worse when he had to read anything up close. A shining orange peel for a skull, dotted and hairless, and sad scraps of hair at either temple. The Kaiser Wilhelm moustache ruffled every time he spoke.

He had begun juridical life in the criminal courts. Putting away the druggies and the pushers. Bullseye and Frank Castle. But that was the Eighties—when you did what you had to and you had to do it.

Giving him the rundown put Scott in a different place. Separate from the crushing reality in the rest of the room.

Coffin finished reading the Guardian Ad Litem's report and released it from quivering old fingers. Pried his glasses off and frowned even more.

_If that's even possible,_ Scott thought.

"Mr Lang," Coffin said and the flaps of skin on either side of his mouth fluttered.

Scott and Matt Murdock stood.

Murdock, in his six thousand dollar suit and rich haircut and rich tie and rich blind-man clickety-clacker cane. He wore red aviator sunglasses that day. Covering up the obvious. Even through them Scott could see a little smile. The crow's feet, ever so faint, and the upturned corner of his mouth.

Murdock patted Scott's shoulder.

Coffin started talking.

"First of all I'd like to stress that this is an irregular case, and that usual shared custody proceedings take little time out of what I'm sure are all of our busy days. Never the less, I am compelled to play along with Mr Humboldt's insistence, which I've been led to believe is also the insistence of Ms Burdick. Yes?"

Humboldt nodded vigorously, his jowls flapping as he did.

"Then it is with this in mind, as well as with the testimonies and affidavits filed by both attorneys, that I'll render a decision here. First a few words, and I'll ask counsel's consent."

Murdock nodded. Humboldt did the same.

"Alright then," Coffin said, and sounded more flat, more unamused, than before. "Mr Lang. You've been…able to fool us all into thinking you're reformed. That's my conclusion here. I think your previous history as an inmate at Northern State, as well as your time on the Avengers team has frankly jaundiced you on what it means to be a responsible parent. I think you understand that, Mr Lang, as well as where I'm coming from."

Scott nodded vaguely.

"I've been practising law for forty-six years," Coffin said. Then he shook his head and the jowls flapped more. "I've never seen anything like this. Such flagrant disregard."

Scott's balls shrivelled a bit.

Murdock glanced around, oddly enough for a blind guy, Scott though.

Coffin went on.

"This is a country—a society—built on trust, and the rule of law. And never in those forty-six years did I once see anything that made me look at this world so reflexively." Quieter, after a moment: "I speak of course of your inclusion on the Avengers team. And your lack of presence in your daughter's life over the last nine months, according to the affidavit Mr Humboldt filed. Do you understand, Mr Lang?"

_Why's he keep saying my goddamn name?_

"Yes, Your Honour."

"I'll be frank. It's obvious to me that you view this world as some kind of play thing. Your own personal sandbox. You treat people as objects and their possessions as your own. To my mind there can be no other rational explanation for your theft of Dr Pym's belongings—"

"Objection," Murdock said. "That case was settled over five years ago. I hardly see how it's relevant to this, Your Honour."

Coffin waved a hand. "Overruled, Mr Murdock. What I see here, Mr Lang, is a pattern of behaviour. You, sir, are a recidivist and a poor one to boot. You use people to further your own puerile goals and then pretend victimisation when results fail to swing your way."

Coffin waited a moment. Wiped his glasses.

Scott's heart sank. Lower and lower.

Then he said, "Are you a mutant, Mr Lang?"

Scott's eyes narrowed, confused. He looked at Murdock, who kept the same blank slate expression he had when he walked in.

"Uh, no, Your Honour. I received my powers from the, ah, Ant-Man suit. More specifically, the Pym particles. No innate genetic mutation."

Murdock raised a hand. "Your Honour, my client's biological makeup is irrelevant to this case."

Coffin's eyes moved between Scott and Murdock. "Merely a question, Mr Murdock," he said and put his glasses back on. Kept going:

"These allegations are quite serious, Mr Lang. You understand this?"

Scott nodded.

Behind the red aviators, Murdock rolled his eyes. Those eyes that saw nothing and everything. Coffin was warming up to something.

"Do you beat your daughter, Mr Lang?"

Scott froze.

Murdock grimaced. A disgusting glower.

Scott looked at Murdock slowly. Back at Coffin.

"What? I—no. I couldn't. I…would never do that…"

"And the nature of your daughter's interaction with both teams, Mr Lang?"

Scott was still frozen. "I…"

Coffin was getting impatient. Thrummed his fingers idly. "Mr Lang?"

"Your Honour…"

Murdock cut in. "Your Honour this is highly disrespectful to my client. And frankly I'd like to know why we haven't heard so much as a peep from Mr Humboldt."

Humboldt shrunk down into his seat.

"One more sleight and I'll have you in contempt, Mr Murdock. This is to be my summation. Not Mr Humboldt's!"

"Yes, Your Honour."

The response came so mechanically.

"Mr Lang," Coffin said and looked back at Scott. "These allegations are quite serious and, quite frankly, we have every reason to believe they carry some element of truth. Otherwise this would not have proceeded to this stage. I want to know, Mr Lang. Our justice system wants to know.

"Do.

You.

Beat.

Your.

Daughter."

Coffin leant forward and waited. Eyes wide. Arthritic claws for fingers entwined.

"No." No was all Scott could say. Quiet and desperate and staring at the table. "No," he said. "Never."

"And you don't believe that your presence on the Avengers team has in any way affected your daughter's well-being. Physically and/or emotionally."

Scott frowned and looked up at Coffin.

"No. She loved the Mansion. Those men and women treated her like one of their own."

Coffin flipped through the report, marking his place with a licked thumb. "And, eh, tell me. Does that include being in the so-called crossfire when you and these, uh, 'Heroes for Hire' go off to fight whatever a Super-Adaptoid is? What then, Mr Lang?"

Scott was silent again. Looking back at the table again. Standing, somehow.

_It's over, Scottie. They're going to take her from you. They're going to take it all…_

"I have no idea what it is precisely the Avengers do, and no idea how they do it," Coffin said. "The fact of the matter is that your colleagues hide behind masks—who knows what they do? Hm? As matters are now, we live in a dangerous world. Not merely drug dealers and white collar criminals. Not merely drunk drivers and gangbangers and small time hoods lifting televisions. But super-powered dictators and creatures beyond human comprehension which for some reason have chosen this planet, and indeed this city, as their own personal battleground.

"I believe, Mr Lang, that you and your Avengers idiomise everything faulty with that system. I believe you have not taken the steps necessary to building a stable life for your daughter with respect to the Avengers—"

Murdock: "Your Honour!"

"—You are symptomatic of a cancer riddling this society! Not merely the overreliance of our public on some super man in a cape to come rescue them from whatever tragedy may befall them—not merely the devaluation of our trusted public servants as viable enforcers of the peace—not merely as placeholders for a social justice system that ensures cultural progress. No, Mr Lang—"

"Your Honour!"

"You are the problem, Mr Lang—"

"Your Honour, this is highly irregular!"

"I consider this as much a custody hearing as in indictment of our superhuman community, Mr Lang!"

Murdock. This time quieter. More sinister: "Your Honour. I respectfully ask that we stop this line of questioning."

"Right now," Coffin said. "I would recommend sole custody be given to Ms Blankenship, as well as a period of psychological testing and physiological examination to mitigate your particular powers, under the auspices of the Commission on Superhuman Activities."

Murdock cut in again: "Your Honour. This is over. My client has already agreed to shared custody. The affidavits in front of you bear that out. And frankly, I don't think my client should be made to endure further embarrassment and innuendo just to satiate the plaintiff's would-be schadenfreude."

Scott thought Murdock might turn his head toward them and glare over the tops of the aviators. Some vengeful little part of him wanted that. Wanted Murdock to walk right up to Humboldt's fat face and break his nose and say, That's How It's Done.

Coffin's face settled into a deep, unhappy frown.

He glared at Matt Murdock.

Murdock, to his credit, stared right back. As much as Manhattan's most famous blind man could.

The next minute passed slowly and terribly for Scott. He was standing and shifting his weight every few seconds to keep his knees from locking. An itch at the small of his back. And in one eyebrow. A quick draw of breath through his nose. His heart pounding. Another itch.

He daren't scratch. He daren't move.

He didn't talk with his hands. There were no wild gestures, no outburst at something the Judge denied. He never raised his voice.

Neither did Coffin.

A long moment later, Coffin waved the other arthritic hand and Murdock stepped away. Walked back to his seat.

"Mr Lang," Coffin said. Not looking at Scott or Murdock.

"Yes, Your Honour?"

"You will have shared custody with Ms Blankenship. Every weekend, 10am Saturday to 6pm Sunday. If this is equitable to Ms Blankenship and counsel—"

At the plaintiff table across the pit, Donald Humboldt sat, all his fat tucked into the chair, his comb-over a dead rag on a shining scalp, next to Peggy: proper and rigid. They leant in to one another and Peggy merely nodded. Humboldt stood and said, "Ah, yes, Your Honour, this is acceptable."

"—Then this is the final decision of this court. We're adjourned."

* * *

**Peggy and the Guardian ad Litem.**

**2000.**

Martha Watson had begun life at Berkeley, deeply unsatisfied at the glass ceiling under which she laboured all these long years to affect an equal footing for Womankind and suing every little-minded Napoleon with the gall to discriminate. At the dawn of the Eighties she found her way to Manhattan and started assaulting the Roxxon Corporation.

To no avail.

Two rocks facing each other, and Roxxon didn't back down from her little tsetse fly buzz. It didn't have to.

So here she was. Parked on a primo Park Avenue law firm, decorated out of _White Christmas _maybe, or even _Newhart_. The same fake pastel charm. Sleepy snowy nights, fires crackling and guarding against frozen loneliness.

Right now, Martha Watson, in a rich black pantsuit and a Diane Keaton necktie hanging loosely around her neck, sat perched on the edge of Peggy Lang's Davenport. Bought with Peggy's money and sitting in Peggy's sitting room: a love letter to a rustic and spartan style, and to Georgian Architecture.

Watson straightened herself and pressed the pen down on the legal pad. Looked up at Peggy and Blake, lounging in civvies for once, over the rims of sea foam green spectacles.

"And can you describe the situation at, eh, 890 Fifth Avenue? Or Avengers Mansion, as you like?"

Peggy shook her head with a wan stare.

Deep inside the fact of the matter was different. It was that she just didn't like them. Which was utterly petty, but utterly justified. When she finally came up with a reason for leaving him, well, the rest was cake.

"It's"—she thought about the next word and decided 'terrible' wouldn't suffice—"not my kind of place. And hardly the kind of place I think Cassie deserves."

Peggy swore she saw a little smile crack across Watson's face.

Watson kept writing and speaking, every phrase a run-on.

"Well, Ms Blankenship, if it'll grease the thought wheels, I want to reiterate what it is I do here, and then if you'd be kind enough to walk me through a day here for you and Sergeant Burdick, we can all be on our way."

"Of course," Peggy said and waved an encouraging hand.

"Thank you," Watson said. Sipped some tea and made an agreeable sort of sound. Good job on the tea, Peggy thought. Wonders for her self-esteem. "Now, I am your guardian ad litem, which means I've been directed by the court to meet with you and Mr Lang, as well as Sergeant Burdick and your daughter Cassandra, and ordinarily—well, in most divorce cases, we'd interview just the parents as well as the children, that is if the children are of a sufficient enough age to understand what's going on. Does this make sense?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Now, it's my understanding that your daughter is nine years old?"

"Going on ten," Peggy said.

"Okay. Well, my firm's policy is to ask your permission first. Other firms don't do this, we find it's because they simply expect the interview. Among other things this eases the burden of the whole procedure and lets us feel like we're not badgering your daughter in the middle of what I'm sure has been a traumatic experience already."

"That's fine," Peggy said. "I don't think she would mind. Um."

Watson's eyes narrowed behind the librarian glasses; her lips pursed and thin vertical lines above and below the lips suddenly became severe. Probably, Peggy guessed, one of the three-pack-a-day crowd.

"Yes?" Watson said and stretched it into a vague and unsettling Inspector Clouseau replica.

Peggy wiped her eyes and sighed, a quick and dismissive affair. She was tired of this already. And surprised by that. "Um," she said again. "Do you want to talk to me first or Cassie or…?"

"You," Watson said and started writing on her legal pad again. "Wherever you want to start, Ms Blankenship, but I'll lead off with one question and then you can go from there, and if I have a question may I interject?"

"Certainly," Peggy said.

"Alright," Watson said. "Tell me a little bit about your ex-husband. And the Avengers, if you like."

Peggy sighed. Looked at the ceiling, looked for words. Then she said:

"I don't know how much you want to know, the whole Nicholas Sparks bit or what, but I guess I'll just give you a little biographical what-not." Watson nodded her head and waved her on. "We were High School sweethearts. Down in Florida. He graduated, well, we graduated together. He went up to Massachusetts to be at MIT and finished their program early. I stayed with my mother during then—she'd relocated to Long Island after my dad died, this was probably 87—she stayed in Coral Gables until we graduated, then upped sticks and went. Her sister, my aunt Ethel, was up there since time began, they made a sort of Au Pair thing, I guess the word would be. Anyway, I was doing classes at, um, CUNY back then. Waiting on Scott, I suppose."

"And your education?"

"I did Art History, undergrad and grad work. The State Council on the Arts hired me right out of the gate and I've been there ever since."

Peggy waited while Watson finished writing that last bit of her vita on the legal pad.

Then Watson looked back and pushed her glasses up on her nose.

"And you've always been here on the Upper West Side?"

"Yes," Peggy said. "It's close." As an afterthought she raised her hand, still a schoolgirl, and said, "But, uh, I think sometimes. About moving, I mean."

Watson touched a bony finger to her chin. "Where would you go?"

"Well, Blake lives in Brooklyn Heights. It'd be more of a commute, I suppose, but we'd be out of the city at least."

Watson looked confused, if only for a moment. A delicate face frowned and aged eyes narrowed again. "And your daughter's school? Her friends?"

Peggy looked away. This was the first time she'd ever thought about Cassie in all this, actually.

_What does that say about me_, she thought.

"I suppose," she said and waited. "That would be a readjustment for her."

"Yes," Watson said. "Yes it would." Mechanically, she changed gears and pressed the pen to paper again. "And Scott?"

"Oh he graduated MIT in two years. Accelerated programme, if I remember. Went up to Boeing after that for an internship—so someone must have liked what he was doing."

"Which was?"

"He was an engineer. Could fix anything but he seemed to limit himself to computers. Electronics. That kind of stuff." Then Peggy smiled and let out a single chuckle. "He used to write me these notes, when we were in High School, going on and on about Mac computers. Used to cut into Laserdisc players just to see how they worked. I think he still has one, at the Mansion."

"He loved that job," Watson said, wistful. "A hobby and more for him, yes?"

Peggy nodded. "I'd say so, yeah. After Boeing he came out here—well, Long Island, but you know. Then something happened."

Watson waited. Then said, "What?"

"Well, he was, involved, I guess you could say, in a theft. Cassie was sick. Her heart, you know."

"Cassie was born by now?"

Peggy said, "Yes. Uh, Scott came down one weekend from Cambridge and, eh, well you know."

Watson smiled. "I think I've got it," she said and kept writing. "And the theft?"

"Well, he eventually went down to Jersey for it—we-we were living in, uh, Jersey City and Scott was commuting into Manhattan for Stark. At least he pleaded guilty, though. That was one thing I was always proud of. But I don't know. He changed."

Watson spoke without looking up. "How so?"

"He used to be sort of, you know, light-hearted. Then when Cassie got sick, he-he kind of lost it, I think."

Watson looked up. "And?"

"I still loved him," Peggy said thoughtfully. "And when he became an Avenger, I knew everything changed. He was happier. But I don't think he really…cared. About me."

"That must've been difficult."

Peggy nodded and wiped a wisp of hair from her eyes. "Yes. He was spending so much time at the Mansion. I used to take him lunch. You know, he'd call me when the team was in—from wherever the hell it was they went—and I'd drive down for lunch." Peggy shook her head, imperceptible. "I guess this was when I met Blake."

"Sergeant Burdick worked out of Precinct 14 at the time, am I right?"

"Yes," Peggy said. "I met Blake around this time. Scott was at the Mansion. Cassie had school—she was just going in you know, really adapting well. It was…it was a lonely time."

"I can imagine."

Peggy gave a polite smile. "And I was leaving the Mansion one day and there was Blake strolling by, on his rounds. He tipped his hat and said 'Ma'am', and I got in my car and came home. It went on for weeks like that. Then he asked me to dinner." Peggy looked at the ceiling. At the idle fan blades. "Scott and I had a fight. He had just beaten the Taskmaster with the team or something, I don't remember, and was very proud of himself. Thought he could take on the world and I just…I was so worried from the way he retold it. I was worried that one of these days when Cassie went there after school, she'd get caught in the crossfire. She was sick before and he ended up stealing to save her. I didn't want her to get caught up in his insane schemes again.

"Was that so much to ask?"

Watson stopped writing and slid the pen behind her ear. Sighed and looked at the legal pad, with its scrawlings. Peggy's life, reduced to strokes on paper.

_Poetic_, Peggy thought.

"No," Watson said. "I don't think it was too much. If you don't mind me saying. I do have one more question, though."

"Sure." It came so flatly.

"Did Scott ever hit you?"

Peggy had been looking at the floor; her eyes came up abruptly and stayed on Watson. She was shocked but made no outward expression. Hands stayed clasped on her waist, posture still straight and impressive. Eyes still glazed, and now out of sorts. "No," she said. "He never did."

"Okay," Watson said and wrote something else. Filed the pen away quickly. "I'd like to talk to Cassie if I could?"

"Sure," Peggy said and stood. "Her room's at the end of the hall. I'll walk you down."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	3. Tasks II

**_Author's Note_**: I confess I have a ridiculously limited knowledge of the nature of process servers in the city/county/state of New york, so if I've messed up that bit of procedure here, let's chalk it up to my mistake alone-wanting to fore-go procedural correctness (which is mostly boring to read about, I find, in fiction) in favor of some dramatic tension here. Also, the usefulness of the Taskmaster comes to a head here, and an explanation in later chapters. Stay tuned for that.

* * *

**Scott and the Taskmaster II.**

**2001.**

This is how the superhero community worked in New York City: word of mouth. Transmission. A thin veil of knowledge and cooperation. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone had dinner with everyone. Sent Christmas cards and condolence cards to everyone when one of them was in the hospital. Everyone spoke to everyone. Everyone knew everything.

Or little bits of everything. The grapevine never had a better life than it did between the two great teams of heroes in Manhattan—the Avengers and the Fantastic Four. Not to mention the others. Daredevil, Spider-Man, the Heroes for Hire. Even the X-Men, upstate.

And right now, the only person Scott felt he could take anything to was Steve Rogers.

So this was how it happened.

When the Taskmaster decided to teach Scott Lang's ex-wife's boyfriend a lesson, this was how it happened.

* * *

Scott and Steve and Clint Barton sitting on the Mansion's back portico, over another Jarvis lunch special. Scott, dishevelled and nattering. Clint, three beers deep and his usual contrarian self.

Steve reserved. As usual.

"What is it, Scott," Rogers said. A voice that was calm and authoritative all at once. The voice that had faced down Nazis and liberated death camps. A voice that had been lost for sixty years.

Scott took a drink off his noontime whisky sour. Then looked up at the sky. Swore he saw Spider-Man swinging across, in the chasm between buildings.

"Oh. Just the usual."

"My apologies."

Scott waved a hand. "And something else happened last night."

Clint was in mid-drink. He gulped it down quickly and set the bottle back on the table. Leant in and said, "What?"

"I went for a walk, and uh, you know, had a hot dog."

"Omar's on 48th? I love that guy."

Scott gave a quick, irascible sigh and glared at Clint. "You're finished, right?"

Clint held up his hands and demurred. "I'm just saying."

Scott quieted after this. He leant forward and drummed his index finger idly on the table—plate glass glinting in the high noon sun. His eyes stayed on the glass, darted to his own whisky sour, to Clint's collection of Stella bottles.

"It was the Taskmaster," Scott said. "He threatened Peggy's new boyfriend."

Clint scoffed. "Taskmaster wants to go one-to-one with the New York police? Meh. Let em waste each other."

Rogers stood, and Scott found himself standing with him. Clint stayed and finished Stella number four. Rogers and Scott were walking toward the Mansion, and Rogers merely said, "Not a chance."

That was when the alarm blared.

An explosion shook the ground a moment later.

Clint's collection of Stella bottles rattled off the table and shattered on the cobblestones patio. He mourned them, but only for a second, then was gone. Sprinting toward the Mansion and pulling on his Hawkeye mask.

The klaxons, blaring through the Mansion, turned into the Emergency Broadcast System. And then the voice of Stark came through on the voice-com, modulated through the Iron Man suit, confirming it all.

"Steve, this is Tony. I was in the area when it happened. There's been an explosion down here at the 14th precinct. Bring everyone. Lots of wounded."

"Any dead?" Rogers asked, storming to the front lawn and dressed in his full Captain America suit.

"Don't know," Stark said, and the line went fuzzy. "Get down here fast. Iron Man out."

Rogers kept a lively pace, storming down the front steps to the Quinjet hovering a foot above the lawn, blowing out debris and flattening the grass. Scott ran out to join him and stopped at the base of the gantry.

"Looks like you were right," Rogers said and slung the shield over his shoulders. "Someone just blew away the 14th precinct."

Clint, in his full Hawkeye suit, came running up to join them.

"We have to go now. If you have reservations about going after your wife's new beau, I respect that. But we need you."

Scott met Rogers' eyes and merely said, "Let's go."

"Uh," Clint said and slid his quiver over one shoulder. "Are we the only ones?"

"Tony's down there already," Rogers said. "Carol and Simon are en route."

The gantry closed. The Quinjet lifted off for the jaunt downtown. Five minutes by car. A lifetime for Scott Lang.

_I'm coming to get you, Blake_, he thought. _You can owe me later._

* * *

Rogers kept the Quinjet at a low hover and simply dove out the back. Flung his shield around to cover his face and landed, on the roof of an NYPD cruiser. Tucked and rolled off the back of it and came to rest in a low crouch on the sidewalk.

The street, crowded on a good day, was a mess. A flaming, scattered chaos all its own. Charred parts of the building's cement façade littered the streets. The building itself hung empty and sagging, burning and moments from collapse.

Hawkeye gaped, but only for a moment to say, "This was one hell of a blast."

Captain America, beside him and doing a spot check: "Yes."

"I think," Scott said, "We can call this on the Taskmaster all right."

Behind the sea-blue mask, Steve Rogers narrowed his eyes. "Come on. There are people who need us."

Stark was already inside. Resplendent and mysterious and locked inside the Iron Man armor, he was holding up a fallen I-beam and gently encouraging the cops that had been caught underneath it to crawl out.

The ones that were alive did.

Everything else was flames and smoke. Collapsed stairwells and blown out walls. Corpses of New York's finest sprawled in ghastly contortions where the explosion had blown them and where they came to rest. Propped up against walls, blown through drywall. Twisted and mangled over desks and smashed through wire-glass panes.

Clint and Scott merely walked through it all, slowly and uncomprehending.

"Why would he do this?" Clint asked. "It's not his thing."

"He wanted to teach him a lesson," Scott said. And looked at Clint. And froze. "He knew about Peggy and the divorce. He knew she was dating a sergeant that works down here. He said he was going to teach him a lesson."

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Taskmaster did you a favour?"

Scott kept walking. Down the hallway, collapsed in on itself, sparks shooting from a fallen fluorescent fixture and lighting the darkened passage brilliantly every few seconds. They turned the corner and saw the bodies in the holding cells. Criminals and DUI offenders, red-light runners and drug pushers. All of them dead. Scarred and burned from the blast—or blasts, maybe. And. And.

Stacked on top of each other.

"Christ," Clint said. Ran one hand up the side of his face, to make sure he was still here. "Why would he do this?"

The answer came from Captain America, standing behind them with the body of the station chief in his arms. Conscious, the chief was, but only barely. "Clearly," Cap said, "the Taskmaster wanted to show you something."

Clint was still gaping at the bodies.

"I'm going upstairs," Scott said.

He wanted the Taskmaster.

_If I'm right_, he thought, _he's still here._

He turned and reached out with the helmet. Found a fly, a common fly that no one would miss, idling its way through the wreckage. He called to it, and in an instant was small enough to ride on it. Up another five floors, up what was left of the utility stairwell.

And when they reached the roof, they saw him.

The Taskmaster.

Scott ditched the fly and assumed his normal size. Pulled off the helmet and held it loose in his hand. And then he saw them. Him.

_It was Blake. Blake Burdick. Sergeant Blake Burdick, oh yes. There in his wop glory_—the sinister little voice inside Scott that hated this man for no reason.

_No_, he corrected. _You've got a reason._

_The man who stole your wife, Scott. Not the man who ruined your wife, but the man who picked up the pieces and ran._

Blake Burdick, the moustachioed asshole who'd swept in after the divorce and probably before. Planting his little ideas in her head and getting her to mistrust Scott.

Blake Burdick on his knees, hands zip-tied in front of him, duct tape wrapped messily around his mouth. Bloodshot and terrified eyes staring out at Scott Lang and wincing and groaning every time the broadsword cut into the back of his neck.

The broadsword attached to a hand in a white pirate's glove.

The Taskmaster.

A white cape and cowl flowing in the midday breeze, white on the outside and burnt orange inside. An inferior version of Captain America's shield slung on one side of his hip, a stylised T in the centre. A bandolier across his chest and another around his waist. Swashbuckler boots in white, planting him in a magisterial pose.

_And the facemask_, Scott thought. _The skull._

_The shitting facemask. You shitting little shit. You monster._

"I told you," the Taskmaster said and pressed the blade further into Blake's neck. "I told you I'd do you a solid. You can owe me later."

Scott grimaced.

And charged.

"You—_monster_!"

Under the skull mask, the Taskmaster smiled. Kicked Blake away and whirled the sword around masterfully.

Scott lunged and drove twin fists into the Taskmaster's gut. Knocked the wind out of him. Knocked him to the ground. Punched him in the gut. All the rage of a screaming kid.

Taskmaster wiggled a knee free, and drove it into Scott's back.

Scott flexed back on instinct. Screamed out.

Taskmaster threw him off and landed an offside kick. A lazy flail that struck Scott's hip in just the wrong place. Scott yelled again in pain and grasped his hip pointlessly.

He looked down. There it was.

_Kick—kick the fucking sword—!_

Stars filled his vision. As he fell forward he turned around.

Taskmaster holding a two-by-four in both hands.

_Like a fucking baseball bat_, Scott thought.

And pressed a hand to his temple.

Everything.

Slowed.

Taskmaster stormed toward him. Darth Vader, only in white. _The Destroyer of Worlds_, Scott thought.

The two-by-four shattered when Taskmaster slammed it across Scott's forehead.

Taskmaster turned the strike into another move, a graceful turn and a roundhouse kick. He whirled on his rear, kicking Scott across the face with one boot-heel. Then the other. His cape flowed out away from the rest of him. Blew into Scott's face and he twisted to compensate.

Everything hurt. Scott got to one knee and caught Taskmaster's next kick. Somehow, somewhere, he found the will to twist the thing and send the Taskmaster flying.

Scott stood slowly. Groaning and cursing.

Then Taskmaster was on his feet. More Judo. More Savate.

_Wait_—

_Wait_—

Scott did the math.

Savate. Where did he know that?

Taskmaster turned, following his own momentum and crouching. Throttling Scott and hoisting him up. Flipping him over and then body slamming him into a vent pipe.

The Taskmaster sighed. Cracked his neck.

"Do I make a lame pun? Do I tell you how I'm a better person?"

Scott got to one knee and coughed up blood. Wiped it away with the back of one hand and looked up at the Taskmaster.

He was hauling Blake back up.

"Or," he said to Scott. "Do we keep doing this?"

Scott stood. Slowly. Blood streaming from the corner of his mouth.

"It was a good trick," Scott said. "I almost forgot that style. Funny that you didn't."

The Taskmaster laughed. And pulled out the 9mm at his waist. Pointed it at Scott.

"I remember everyone," Taskmaster said. "Including the great Georges Batroc."

"It was brilliant." Scott wheezed and wiped away more blood. "Why aren't you downstairs picking a fight with Cap?"

Scott saw just enough of the human face underneath the skull mask. Just enough to see the eyes narrow and the mask shift a bit. Into a scowl.

"I wanted you," Taskmaster said. Pointed the usual accusatory finger.

"How many more targets left," Scott said. "How many more lessons to teach? How many more fighters to plagiarise?"

Taskmaster took the pistol away.

Scott relaxed, but only for a moment. Therein lay his mistake.

Taskmaster brought the pistol back. Slammed the butt of it across Scott's forehead.

He fell with a dull thump. Pressed one hand to the wound, already streaming blood. And looked back up at the Taskmaster.

Still aiming the 9mm right at his forehead.

"You shut down my circus operation," Taskmaster said.

"That was years ago!"

"You're a fraud, Lang. This piece of shit took your wife. And you're not even mad. I can see it in your eyes. You and Stark and Rogers all play your sick little game of cat and mouse with me and you think you're changing the world. Tell me. Ant-Man. This piece of shit gets his head blown off in broad daylight. What happens then?"

"You'll rot!" Scott shouted. "In cop-killer prison!"

"Not my first go." The mask shifted again. He was smiling underneath. And he levelled the pistol at Blake.

Scott took the opportunity to kick the Taskmaster off his feet. The gun fired into the air and fell out of his hand.

Scott went for it. Jammed an elbow into the Taskmaster's shoulder as he fell.

_Knock you out—this time._

He grabbed the gun and contorted in mid air.

_Get—get!_

Up.

He did. He looked at the gun like he'd never seen one before. At the Taskmaster, propping himself up on one an elbow, and looking at Scott and muttering obscenities.

Scott waited till the Taskmaster could see him.

When he did, and scowled again under the skull facemask, Scott shrank the 9mm into nothingness.

"Directed the Pym particles," Scott said. "Your idea."

Taskmaster got to one knee and launched himself at Scott.

And jerked backward. And stared, aghast, at the arrow sticking out of his chest. Scott saw the human eyes grow wide.

Hawkeye stepped forward. Another arrow ready in the bow, and aimed at Taskmaster's head.

"Got it all wrapped up, eh, Tasky?"

Taskmaster grunted and swore to himself and pulled the arrow out. Slowly. "Not. Quite. Yet."

In the next moment he threw the arrow back at Hawkeye, who didn't even see it coming. The arrow sliced through his forearm. The bow fell lazily and the arrow lay on the ground next to it. Hawkeye gawked at his injury. "You," he stammered, and the inner rage grew, that distinctive anger that so characterised Clint Barton. "You mother-"

Taskmaster was on him. Interrupting the Barton rage. Jamming his fingertips into Hawkeye's trachea - the old choke tap - and jamming an ingloriously placed knee into Hawkeye's groin. A lazy, cheap move, but effective none the less.

"Daredevil," he said and tightened his grip. "In case you were wondering."

He pinned Hawkeye's legs down with his own. Pulled a micro-syringe out of one of the pouches on his bandolier and jammed it into Hawkeye's neck.

"And that'll be a paralytic. Punisher, by the way."

Hawkeye's face froze in an open, frozen gasp.

Taskmaster stood and turned. And pulled his gloves tighter. Walked over to Blake and picked up the broadsword. "No air," he said and gave Hawkeye a fake little wave. "Have fun, asshole."

He cocked his head and pulled Blake close. And balanced the sword's razor tip on the end of Blake's nose.

"You flinch, I drive this through your septum and you never feel it. Or you do. I don't know, I couldn't say for sure. Never experienced it."

"Care to try?"

Taskmaster whirled around. The human eyes in the skull mask were wide.

Captain America stood in the doorway. Iron Man hovering behind him.

Taskmaster dropped the sword and freed his own shield, the imitation with the stylised T.

Cap's was already free.

_ No—get him!—you fuck—_

The shield's edge slammed across Taskmaster's face. Split the skull mask wide open. Broke the human nose underneath. Blood spewed and the rest of him slumped to the ground.

Cap caught his shield and slid it back around his shoulders. All one motion.

He helped Scott to his feet.

Iron Man knelt next to Hawkeye and pressed his open palm, covered by the gauntlet and repulsor ray and whatever else Scott guessed Stark had built into the thing, to Barton's neck.

He started moving, slightly, in the next moment.

Cap hauled the Taskmaster to his feet and handed him back to Iron Man.

Then he was at Blake's side. Ripping the duct tape from Blake's mouth and the zip-ties from his hands. He helped him up and thanked him for being a good sport and apologised for any inconvenience.

Blake stood there, half-cowering, half-erect, not pissing himself but not pissed either. He kept his eyes away from Scott.

Cap looked from Blake to Scott.

"You know him?"

Scott merely turned and walked away. Picked up the Ant-Man helmet as he went.

And didn't look back.

The Taskmaster had half-assed a plan to get Scott to look at himself and to hate what he saw. _Using this town and its people as pieces in his stupid little game_, Scott thought. _Congratulations, Tasky_. _You threatened an innocent New York cop. Innocent by your standards and even mine._

_Mine._

_Huh._

Outside the fire crews were pulling up. Cruisers from other precincts. The fire marshal. The city police commissioner himself. A SHIELD unit transport, bulky and impractical, in matte grey. It was Cap who handed the Taskmaster off to the agents, who looked little better than accountants in jumpsuits, Scott thought.

He turned away and helped Clint into the waiting Quinjet, where Simon sat in the pilot's seat. Cap followed a moment later, sidestepping for a moment to talk to Iron Man—too far away for Scott to hear. Then Cap was walking up the gantry and Iron Man was rocketing into the sky.

"Let's go," Cap said.

Then the Quinjet was gone.

You can owe me later, the Taskmaster had said.

Scott slunk down in his seat.

_And what does it say about you_, he thought._ What kind of person are you that a fucking super-villain's doing your rage issues for you?_

_Why aren't you angry at her?

* * *

_

**Scott and Reed Richards.**

**2000.**

Years ago, they had lived in Jersey City. Scott had commuted into Manhattan to work at Stark Industries and to do some meaningful part-time work with the Avengers. When Cassie was born, or old enough anyway, they moved to the Upper West Side. Peggy had been pulling down respectable money at the Arts Council; Stark was handing out bonuses like Halloween candy. And why not. Stark Industries was on the top of the world.

Had been ever since.

So standing in his bathroom, stealing vain little glances at himself in the mirror every chance he could as he dressed, Scott wondered if it would always be that way. If Stark would lose it all someday.

And wondered if he'd be around for that.

He cracked a thin smile. Finished buttoning his shirt but left it untucked. Pulled on the blazer but left it unbuttoned.

Peggy was sitting at the dining table, reading. Sitting upright, with _Peyton Place_ clasped between her hands. Short blonde hair reflecting the chandelier's light dimly. She'd had the apartment redecorated recently. Used the Christmas bonus to do it. Late Georgian. Windows remoulded in simple white, with matching entablatures above. Crown moulding, the same fountain style as a Corinthian column, stretching the whole way round the dining room and living room ceilings. Walls in light olive, kitchen in burgundy. Master bedroom sunset yellow. Cassie's room harvest pink—whatever that meant.

All Peggy's ideas.

She turned her head only a bit when she heard him coming down the hall.

He leant down and kissed her cheek.

"So dinner with Reed and Sue tonight," he said.

"I remember," she said and put the book down. Slid out and went to the stove.

Scott leant against the breakfast bar, the only separator of kitchen to dining room.

"You're okay with this?"

She was tamping tea leaves into a mesh filter over a jumbo cappuccino mug. "Of course," she said. "Why not? You go have fun."

He waited. "It's just that we haven't been spending a lot of time together lately. And I worry about you."

She looked up. Her mouth hung open but only for a moment. She leant against the counter. "It's okay, Scott."

"Is it?"

"Stop making a thing of it," she said and made a frank smile. "Okay? They're your friends. Go and enjoy yourself. Cassie's at the Newmar's for a sleepover. I've got a whole slew of TiVo to catch up on."

"You're sure?"

She drank from the comically oversized mug. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," he said and kissed her again. "I'll bring you back a doggie-bag."

And he was gone.

She sat back at the dining table and eyeballed _Peyton Place_.

Then she pulled her mobile out of her pocket and punched in the number.

His number.

Waited for him to answer.

_Please answer._

"Hello?"

"It's Peggy," she said. "Uh, Peggy Lang."

"Oh right!" The response came soft and easy. "How are you?"

"Well, fine, fine I guess," she said. "Um. Sergeant Burdick."

"Blake," he said. Sounded agreeable enough.

"Blake," she said. "I was wondering."

"Yes?"

"If you're doing anything tonight?"

* * *

Reed took Scott to Tavern On The Green.

It hadn't changed much since Scott saw it years ago in _Ghostbusters_. Maybe it had shed some of the tackier 80s décor, the pastel flower paintings and the female clientele and wait staff with shoulder pads from here to ya-ya.

Things were sleeker now. Efficient. And somehow still homely. But this was Scott's element. He felt at home in the electronic information-age milieu. It was his place and none knew it better than he.

Maybe Stark.

But Stark wasn't here.

Just Scott and Reed Richards. The best friend.

So Scott hoped.

"So order anything you like," Reed said, sitting comfortably in his seat in his blue suit and black turtleneck. "My treat."

"Oh no," Scott said. "I can cover my own."

"I insist," Reed said and smiled. "The owner and I go back a bit. He helps me out every year on Sue's anniversary with a little get-together. And anyway you've seen our budget."

Scott was pouring wine into his glass. "The one that just has the infinity sign?"

Reed laughed. "That's a little motivational tool Sue came up with. Claims it inspires me. And anyway, you've seen the budget."

Scott shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Precisely," Reed said and took a hearty drink of Merlot.

"So what's it like not having to worry about money?"

Reed raised an eyebrow, amused. "A fair question. You're one to talk."

"I guess so. Anyway. I accept your offer of buying me dinner. Just, eh, don't tell anyone, yeah? I like to maintain this shell of dignity." Then he laughed.

"Can't argue with that," Reed said. "I'm glad you accepted my invitation."

"I'm glad you asked me. Things are going pretty well, I think. I've got reason to celebrate."

"Oh yeah?"

"Peggy's doing well," Scott said. "Cassie's getting along great with her school friends."

"I'm glad," Reed said. "For my own part, it feels good to be back in the Baxter Building. I think Sue and the boys are glad, too. Pier 4 was fine but there's a lot to be said for home, you know."

Scott nodded.

"It's good to see you."

"You too," Reed said.

Scott raised his glass. "You're my good friend, Reed."

"And you're mine," he said. "Let's keep it that way, yes?"

They clinked glasses and drank almost in unison. And as he drank Scott felt a little panic at the back of his mind. Just a little.

_You know the hole here._

_ He's Mister Fantastic._

_ He's everyone's friend…_

_ So what are you?_

* * *

As it turned out, Blake ended up doing her tonight.

They lay entwined in each other in the master bedroom. Sheets strewn about. Light from the streetlamps outside, the colour of the afternoon sun, streaming through the blinds. Venetians. 48 dollars at Harlow's Antiquities in the South Bronx. Dirt cheap, but oddly enough, she thought, they really classed the place up.

That was Florida talking. The relentless skinflints and cost-cutters. Grim types with money to spare and wherewithal to wonder why.

Peggy stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

She tried so hard to be rid of that. That Florida-ness.

Blake rolled over and laid a hand, gentle and warm, on her chest.

"Well," he said. "Are you ready?"

She sighed. Ran her fingers through her hair.

Blake was already kissing her neck and moving further down.

She propped herself up and went for the nightstand. The drawer underneath where she kept her reading glasses, her prophylactics, her bank statements.

She plucked out a manila envelope and glanced at it, but only for a moment. Looking at it but not wanting to. Like she wasn't supposed to.

Blake kissing her shoulder.

She pulled the stack of papers out and read the heading. Re-read it. It wasn't heard, not the first time. She'd affixed his name and her own to the documents weeks ago. Had gone to see Humboldt, poor reliable and stupid Humboldt, weeks ago, too.

_Only one thing left to do now_, she thought. No way but the wrong way.

_SEPARATION AGREEMENT_

_Scott Lang, hereinafter referred to as "Husband," and Peggy Rae Blankenship, hereinafter referred to as "Wife," hereby agree to the following…  
_

She stuffed the papers back into the envelope and sealed it up. Plucked a pen from the nightstand, her nightly crossword fixation, and scrawled on the outside: _For Scott_, _Please read._

Then she was up and walking for the bathroom. Blake following her, with a crude and prideful smile on his face.

The manila envelope lay on the bed until they came back out, an hour later.

Blake was slipping on his boxers when he got a bright idea. He looked at Peggy with the same crude glint.

"I'll call one of the boys. Bobby or Landon."

* * *

Blake sent Landon. Landon Copeland. A name out of a romance novel, and a childish little attitude he picked up in the tenth grade and never left behind. A prickly little probie with a Johnny Unitas haircut and a scowl frozen into his face. Born out at Wright-Patt or Edwards or some other base—Blake couldn't be bothered to remember. A military brat coming from wherever he thought people naturally lived and acted.

He also took to suggestion like cancer to a prostate.

Blake liked him for that.

So this was how it happened.

Blake called the precinct from Peggy's bedroom, from Peggy's bed, from on top of her. Said, "Stop in the Upper West Side, I've got something for you. Come in the unmarked car, no fuss. Deliver it to Tavern on the Green, ask for Reed Richards' table." "Okay," Landon said and sounded like a hungry dog. "Address on the Upper West Side?"

Blake looked down at Peggy. She mouthed 181 West 84th Street. Apartment 47. Blake read it back to Landon.

"84th, okay, on my way now, sir."

Blake hung up. Threw the phone across the room.

He smiled at her. She smiled back. And waited for him.

* * *

Landon strolled right into the Tavern on the Green. Asked the maître-d for Reed Richards table as commanded. The manila envelope he kept tightly under one arm, the way someone carries the morning newspaper.

He'd gone to the Upper West Side apartment as requested. Blake answered wearing a robe that was too small for him—someone else's, Landon thought—and stuck the manila envelope in Landon's outstretched palm. Slammed the door in Landon's face.

And here he was. Doing the boss's bidding. Doing the loyalty thing. Walking through the Tavern in his policeman's best. Sharp blue on square shoulders. Striding and confident and clear.

He spied Richards, and Lang. He knew Lang.

Heard Blake talking about him all the time. Remembered the sleights. "What can I say, probie, guy's a loser." "Guy thinks he runs around with Stark and Richards, makes him better'n us, what a moron."

Landon agreed. He'd read somewhere that first impressions are important. Being a cop allowed him to hide behind the badge; that was enough of an impression for most. Margaret Thatcher, or so he'd been told, made estimations about the people she met in the first ten seconds of meeting them and rarely changed. Landon admired that.

He stopped at Richards' table. Clacked his heels together in a grandiose fashion, imagining himself, perhaps, to be on guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. If he'd had a rifle in his arm, he'd have carried the weight of the world along with it.

"Scott Lang?"

Lang put down his wine glass and looked up at Landon with expectant, unknowing eyes.

"From your wife, sir," Landon said. "You've just been served."

Landon turned on his heels and was gone.

Scott stared at the envelope for a long moment. Ripped it open and gawked at the top sheet.

_SEPARATION AGREEMENT_

_Scott Lang, hereinafter referred to as "Husband," and Peggy Rae Blankenship, hereinafter referred to as "Wife," hereby agree to the following…  
_

He looked back at Reed. Eyes narrow and confused. Skin flushing a terrible white. Mouth slackened. Then his eyes darted around. At the other patrons, quietly minding their crème-puffs and pretending not to have heard a damn thing. At Richards with a calm and worried and judicious look on his face. The kind of face Scott was sure Reed wore all the time.

"Um," Scott said and wiped his lips dry. The old drunk's trick. "I think. Uh. Can you. Uh."

"I'll drive you back," Reed said and stood. In another motion he'd summoned a waiter and told him to charge the dinner to the Fantastic Four.

A five minute jaunt took forever. For Scott. When Reed stopped the Mercedes—had the good fortune to find a damned space right in front of the building on 84th, Scott thought—Scott froze. And looked out the window.

"I shouldn't go," he said.

Reed looked back. "You could…stay with us. Tonight. We've got the space. Give you a chance to think it over?"

Scott frowned. And looked away from the building. The stairs soaked dark grey with the night's rain. He leant forward and patted Reed's shoulder. And waited a moment.

Finally he said, "I'm sorry I ruined dinner, Reed."

Reed grabbed his hand. Shook it authoritatively. "You never need to apologise to me, Scott. If you choose you'll never have to see her again. I can send Ben and Johnny for your things tomorrow. We can take care of everything. Now come on; you need to think and process. I'll make us a hot toddy when we get back."

Scott looked out the window again.

Narrowed his eyes and forced a scrutinous little frown. Swore he saw the bedroom lights on.

* * *

_**Continued...**_


	4. Reasons

**Author's Note**: A bit of errata here. The date on the confrontation with the Taskmaster at Precinct 14 last chapter should read 2000, not 2001. The idea then is that the divorce, the Taskmaster's flawed lesson, and indeed the brunt of the story all happen within a few months of each other. So it was a busy summer for Earth's Mightiest, you might say.

* * *

**Scott and The Avengers.**

**2000.**

It took the weekend for him to find the nerve to go back.

Reed drove again and brought Johnny with them. The two of them stayed on the street while Scott went up.

He was surprised his key still worked. Surprised she hadn't strip-mined the place—pulled a Billy Joel, they used to joke, and moved on out. No. Things were the same. As if this thing, this divorce, so simple as a mere transferral of papers, had never happened. No, he thought.

_Your marriage ends and the world goes right on round, Scottie._

He wiped his face and sighed.

And heard someone rustling in the kitchen.

He rounded the corner and saw her. Cassie, sitting on a stool and hunched over the breakfast bar, going mano-a-mano with a bowl of Wheaties.

"Sweetie," he said. "Um. Where's Mom?"

Cassie looked up and said, mechanically, "She went out with Blake."

Scott frowned. His inner expression was more severe.

He knew Blake.

He remembered the fake little London Bobby walk Blake used to do when his patrol passed the Mansion. Peggy coming to visit and stealing little glances at Blake and his little wop get-up.

_That's not nice_, he thought. _But you had him figured. A long time ago. And her._

_Especially._

_That's it, Scottie. Bury the anger, like we did back in the Gables. Take the pain and put more pain on top of it. That's how it's done!_

"Out?"

"Yeah," Cassie said and didn't seem affected. "She said she'd be back, but that you didn't have to wait for her."

"Her words?"

"Uh, yeah."

Scott sighed and leant against the door frame. "How long's she been gone?"

"I dunno. Twenty minutes?"

He had to smile at that. The alternative was horrifying, and he got a little thrill out of Cassie's precocious way of speaking. Always did.

"Um. I'll stay with you. Until she gets back."

Cassie smiled and said, "Okay."

The front door opened a moment later. Peggy stormed in, fumbling in her purse and wiping hair from her face. Breathing heavy—pissed off or in a minor huff. Scott didn't get up. Waited for her to see him.

She stopped halfway into the bedroom and looked back at him. Sitting there with Cassie.

"What are you doing, Scott?"

He shrugged. "Well, I thought I'd keep our nine-year-old company while you went out."

She sighed and jutted her jaw out. An annoying old holdover from her days with braces.

"I ran down to the market," she said. "Cassie's fine."

Scott waited.

Then he stood and kissed Cassie on the forehead. "I'd like a moment alone with my daughter?"

Peggy blew out another annoyed sigh. Held up her arms, the 'if you insist', and stormed into the bedroom. Slammed the door.

"Okay," Scott said and looked at Cassie. "Your mom and I, uh, mostly your mom, has decided to, ah, stop. Being married to me."

Cassie's eyes narrowed. Confused, in her way. Processing it in her way.

Then it hit her. Or Scott thought it did, at least. The tears were coming.

"Will I ever see you again?"

It was a sob and a whisper. Mature and so child-like.

Scott wiped away a tear of his own and hugged her tight.

"Of course you will, sweetie. Of course you will."

He kissed her forehead and looked up. Into the den. At the coffee table.

At the police badge sitting there, next to the book of Pablo Neruda poems. His book of Neruda poems.

_The badge_, he thought. _His badge._

And kept hugging.

* * *

**Scott and Steve Rogers.**

**2000.**

_Lunch with Captain America._

Even Scott's inner monologue's couldn't use his real name. He was Captain America. The one, the only.

_Well._

There were others. Lifetimes ago. Pretenders and honourees. Ones who took Steve's example and ran with it. Brave men who did their best.

William Naslund and Jack Monroe. Jeffery Mace. And Bucky. Always Bucky. The ones who'd kept the legacy going after the war. Years ago, Scott had read their files, courtesy of Stark and Reed Richards.

But here Scott sat with Steve Rogers. The original. The scrawny nobody from the Lower East Side. A beanstalk that took an experimental and highly dangerous injection and became this, this wonderful thing.

And punched Hitler in the face.

Scott never got used to it. Never stopped being amazed by it.

He pushed aside the plate with the half-eaten watercress sandwiches and the coffee mug. Leant over the table and kept his eyes on Rogers.

"I'm tired of talking about my life."

Rogers sipped his coffee and merely said, "I'm sorry, Scott."

Scott waved a hand. "Everyone is. But thanks."

Rogers smiled fondly. Set the coffee cup back on the table. "So what did you want to talk about?"

Scott waited. For a way to frame it correctly, or in a decidedly non-stupid way. A way that wouldn't condescend to this man that fought monsters and Nazis and still had time for a simple lunch.

"I'd like to know about the war," he said. "I'm not a historian. I've shared my life with you and you've been kind enough to listen." He chuckled. "I want to know more about you, Steve. If you'll allow me."

Rogers smiled again.

"Of course," he said. "What would you like to know?"

"Okay," Scott said. "When I was in junior high, the Tuskegee Airmen came for an assembly, right? It was fascinating, absolutely fascinating. But it never really hit home. Not until I met you, Steve—I don't even like calling you Steve, how's that?"

Rogers chuckled. "I don't mind."

"Yes," Scott said and slunk in his seat a bit. "I mean. You saved Europe. You punched Hitler in the face. You won the war!"

Rogers looked down for a second. "No," he said and looked back at Scott slowly. "I didn't win the war. But I helped."

Scott frowned. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he said. And started talking. Scott hung on every word.

"Imagine," Rogers said, "the most fascinating time to be alive. Despite the rationing and the Depression and everything else. All that had been prefatory. When I was at the Lehigh Base training, and eventually becoming Captain America, it was…such a world to live in, Scott. Flying regulations were different then; if you were on a motorcycle driving out on Route 50 or through the flatlands in Virginia, you couldn't go five miles without hearing some plane screaming over you. Never the same one, and not always a military plane, either. If you owned a place you could just go and have the afternoon flying over the country. Training exercises for the most part, in the towns around Lehigh, but a lot were just individual pilots. I once knew a fellow, took up flying because he'd read about Richthofen and Eddie Rickenbacker during the First World War. Driving was different. The people were different. The air was, oh, you could smell the promise. America was a busy place. You could buy a newspaper with a nickel and spend the change on lunch. Roosevelt's fireside chats. All the news from the UK about Churchill and the RAF facing down the worst Hitler could throw at them.

"And then there I was. Heh. This scrawny little nothing. And it was tough, yes. There were days, stateside and in Europe where it seemed like none of it would ever end."

He was quiet, staring at the big bay window looking out at the garden, for a long moment. Then he started again:

"I was there in London when the air raid sirens were going off. I was in Russia when the Germans broke through. I saw the camps. The saw the POWs. I saw…I saw young men dying because they'd sworn oaths to men who'd never met them and who they'd never meet. And I thought—I said to myself, this can't go on. This isn't how we were supposed to live, and this isn't going to be how freedom ends."

Scott waited. "And?"

"And," Rogers said. "It wasn't. We did so much to get there. Went so far. But the war for us, Scott, ended on a little island in the English Channel. The Red Skull had sent Zemo to steal an experimental plane in London. Right under everyone's noses. But it was no good. They'd lost the war already. I didn't know it until years later, but it was the Skull who leaked the information to us. He planned for us to go to the Channel Islands. So there we were, Bucky and I. Prisoners."

Rogers stopped for a moment and touched his finger and thumb to his chin. Looked away thoughtfully. Scott swore he saw a smile. Ever so slight.

Rogers looked back. "I suppose you know the rest of the story."

"Yeah," Scott said evenly. "Frozen on ice until Namor decides to teach some Eskimos a lesson."

Rogers smiled. "Something like that."

"And what about Bucky?"

"He was stuck," Rogers said. "We were trying to escape and I did a very stupid thing. I should have stayed with him."

Scott frowned. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Rogers said.

Another moment passed. Rogers sipped his coffee, Scott from his own beer.

"I grew up in that war," Rogers said. "I was that skinny little nobody. And then I was Captain America. Traipsing across the English Channel. Traipsing across Russia. Saving lives and beating Nazis."

"You saved the world," Scott said.

Rogers leant back and thought about it for a moment. "The ones that saved the world, Scott, the real heroes, they're still buried over there. I just did the best I could. I made plenty of mistakes—I still do—but I also do what I can to set a good example. That was the lesson we took from Europe."

"But?"

Rogers cracked another thin smile. He looked skyward. "It was the best time of my life, Scott. Second maybe to this."

"You've given so much of your life to helping other people. To this country."

"Not the country," Rogers said. "Just the dream."

Scott smiled. "Thank you, Steve. For scheduling me in."

Rogers said, "You're on this team, Scott. We're equals. You don't ever have to play up to me."

Scott let out a single chortle. Barely audible. "Well," he said. "I certainly can't imagine my life taking the turns it has. I really can't. But for the record, uh, Steve?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad I'm here," he said. And held back the emotion.

Rogers stood and patted him on the shoulder. "So am I. Now. I think it's your turn."

"Oh hey, uh, we don't—we don't have to talk about that right now."

"Scott," Rogers said. Slowly. "I've been away. Clint and Reed aren't going to come gossiping to me. It's not their way and it's not mine. So I'd like to know about you, and Peggy, if you're up to it."

Scott waited. Looked at the table, at his beer. Plucked it off and took a quick, deep drink, and set it back down, almost in the same motion.

"I think," he said and stayed looking at his beer. "You and I are the same, Steve. I don't know if you've got regrets, but I do. Marrying her in the first place was one of them."

"Was?"

"I guess I should have said 'is'. It's all in the past now. Like, it's just happened." He looked skyward and his voice cracked. "And it already feels a million years old."

Rogers looked very sad. Silent and unmoving, leant back in the wrought-iron chair.

He thought of Bucky. That sad, terrified boy staring at him. That boy who had survived the Russian winter, who had killed Nazis, who had strode alongside Rogers into the concentration camps and seen firsthand the horrors of the Nazi programme.

_That boy_, he thought. _That brilliant, brave boy._ And that terrified look. Screaming out for help, screaming out for Steve to come back from his plunge.

"I have regrets," Rogers said finally.

Scott looked up at him slowly. Through tearful eyes. "Then," he said. "We are the same."

"Yes," Rogers said. "Us and everyone else on this team. We all share personal histories littered with tragedy. None of our lives may have turned out the way we might have liked, but then, we might not have ended up here."

Scott frowned.

"I believe in fate," Rogers said. "I believe that things happen for a reason. This, Scott, right here, having lunch and talking as equals, is part of that. It's a healing process. It's a learning process."

Rogers paused. Across the table, Scott was holding back the crying and wiping the tears away. Vigorously.

"Scott, you're not going to want to hear this," Rogers said. "But you're separating for a reason. There is some good that will come from this."

Scott leant forward. The tears started coming. "She was my life…"

Rogers was out of his chair and comforting Scott. He merely said, "I know."

"She won't come for lunch anymore," Scott wept. "I'll never see my daughter again. I'll never sleep in the same bed as my wife again. No more. I'm never going to see her again." Then he trailed off. Whispered, "No more happy thoughts."

"Scott."

He made his hands into fists and pounded them lightly, pointlessly, into Rogers' chest. Muttered, "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Scott," Rogers said and put more power into it. He pulled Scott away from the embrace and looked him in the eyes. "Scott. Look at me."

He waited. Waited for Scott to sniffle the excess snot away. To clear his eyes and regulate his breathing. And finally, Scott Lang looked Rogers in the eyes. Those impossible blue gems that had stared down Hitler.

"I'm sorry," Rogers said. "I'm so sorry."

Scott sobbed.

"I want you to do something for me," Rogers said. "All right? Listen to me. Do something for yourself. You're right that all those times, all those things that made your marriage and your life what it was—they won't exist again. Not anymore. But now, Scott, now is the time to make new times and new memories.

"Now you take that time off, Scott, that's an order. Take that time and save yourself. I'm 85 years old, son, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's this: time makes all things possible. Now, take your weekend. Find your centre again, Scott, do what you love, do whatever you like. Come back to us when you're ready.

Behind teary eyes and sad, broken face, Scott only said, "Sir…"

Rogers knelt by the chair and hugged Scott.

"You don't deserve to suffer. Take as much time as you need," Rogers said.

"What," Scott sobbed. "What about the team?"

Rogers just smiled in his usual sly way. "We'll be here."

* * *

**Scott and Matt Murdock.**

**2000.**

Scott spent the weekend shrunken. Microscopic. Imperceptible to people that wouldn't have looked for him anyway. Tiny and forgotten, which was exactly the point. But still in New York.

He spent Saturday with a horde of houseflies in the Village. Admiring their structure, their society, and thinking quite often of Heinlein's book _Starship Troopers_: how insects were perfectly suited for communistical life. The hive mind and the castes. The great chain of being, Peggy once called it.

He left the horde when he realised he couldn't have it.

It was an emotional, indulgent and maybe even a little angst-filled weekend spent microscopic. By Sunday, he was ready to rejoin the human world.

It took watching a mantis consume another one, among the weeds on Central Park West, to convince him. An oddly hilarious sight, too. The poor male mantis never saw it coming, and after copulation, boffo, off went his head.

Scott laughed at it and then fled when he swore he saw the vengeful female mantis staring at him.

He caught a passing butterfly and commandeered it back to the Mansion.

It was nice to think, just that once, that he wasn't the only man who'd had his head ripped off.

He leapt off the butterfly as it crested the gates, and assumed normal human form. Landed in an impressive tuck-and roll, and righted himself at the foot of the steps.

Rogers was there, in his Cap suit. Reed Richards, too. And someone else Scott didn't recognise. A man, about Reed's height, in a grey suit. Hair the colour of red wine and waving in the wind, with matching aviator sunglasses and a thin, modest smile.

"Scott," Richards said. "This is Matt Murdock."

"Mr Lang," Murdock said and offered his hand. Scott shook it out of habit.

Scott cocked his head and analysed Murdock in a brief moment. He seemed…

"Have we met?"

"Not that you know of," Murdock said. "Now. I'm here to help you find an amicable settlement to this divorce."

Scott was confused. He scratched his head idly and looked at Richards. Back at Murdock.

Murdock slid an arm around Scott's shoulder and said, "Let's go inside."

Scott looked back as Murdock led him inside, down the front hall to the East Library. Richards and Rogers stayed outside, talking amongst themselves.

The Library had been McCoy's idea, when McCoy was on the team. A long time ago. Floor to ceiling bookcases, all of them filled. A reproduction Monet on the north wall. A bay window on the main wall, behind a desk made of oak and carved with delicate and faint gargoyle faces at the corners.

Scott eased himself into one of the leather wingbacks before the desk. Murdock slid into the rocker behind the desk and rested his hands on his briefcase.

Scott sighed and scratched his head. Looked at Murdock and said, "I guess I should go get my checkbook, yeah?"

"Not necessary," Murdock said. "Dr Richards wants to be billed."

Scott froze. His mouth slackened and his eyes narrowed, fixed on Murdock.

"No," he said. "No. No. I can handle this."

"Scott—"

"No!" he said and stormed inside the foyer. "I can handle this. Why won't any of you let me handle this?"

Murdock waited. The smile vanished.

Scott pursed his lips. About to speak.

Murdock said, "Who are you really mad at, Scott?"

Scott looked around, angry. Darting eyes searching every corner of the room for an answer. The old escape trick. Finally he sighed and merely said, "Okay. What can you do?"

Behind the blood-red aviators, Murdock's eyes narrowed and he smiled thinly. He was in lawyer mode. "Dr Richards and Mr Barton tell me that there's another man in Peggy's life, Scott, may I ask about that?"

"She's been cheating on me."

Murdock drew back, scaled lawyer mode down to a quieter level.

"We could file a counter suit. Or divorce with proof of adultery, which complicates things but could prove beneficial to you. Emotional damages. Usually my firm doesn't get into that sort of thing, but for you I can and will make an exception."

Scott turned and looked at Murdock. "So just what does your firm do?"

"If you're asking if we chase ambulances," Murdock said and gave a brief comical shrug, "the answer is no. We do probate, we do criminal, and we even do a bit of, ah, well I'd like to call it comp work."

Scott frowned. "You're vultures."

"No," Murdock said and waved a hand. The something strange happened.

Scott glanced at him for a moment, and swore that Murdock was staring right at him. That those eyes hiding behind the blood-red aviators were locked on Scott's own baby-blues. Like Murdock was casing him. Or listening for something.

"We're just trying to help," Murdock said and sounded sympathetic. "My partner and I, we take cases and we try to determine if our help is needed, wanted, or available."

"Are you available?"

Murdock smiled again. "No," he said. "But as I said, I'm making an exception."

"Why me?"

Murdock was pulling papers out of his briefcase and stopped when Scott asked that.

He was looking at Scott again.

"It's important," Murdock said. "I promised to take excellent care of you."

Scott's eyes narrowed.

Murdock didn't seem intimidated. He merely leant forward and said, "Reed Richards." Then he leant back and started sorting the papers from his briefcase.

Scott touched a finger to his chin. Thought about it for a moment.

"Can you see me?" he asked.

Murdock didn't look up. "No."

Scott said, "Oh."

"Now," Murdock said. "You said she was cheating on you. Did you have any idea?"

"No," Scott said and shook his head. "But, uh, I guess I haven't really been around. Lately."

"How so?"

"Well," Scott said, "I've been here a lot. Past few weeks have been a little crazy. Taskmaster and what-not."

"I heard about that," Murdock said, still not looking at Scott. Ran his fingers lithely over the Braille files. For some reason Scott couldn't understand, he was writing with his free hand on a slim legal pad. And not in Braille. Scott frowned. "So you've been here, and your wife has been…what?"

Scott cocked his head.

Murdock looked at him. Over the rims of the aviators. "Scott?"

"Oh. Uh. She runs the State Council on the Arts."

Murdock gave a minor nod. "And you had no idea she was meeting this person?"

"I started noticing stuff around the house. You know. Ah, kinds of underwear that I don't wear, if that means anything. She'd take trips out to Montauk to visit her sister—her family used to live in, uh, East Egg. I was here during the day and Cassie was at school. Peggy started doing two-a-weeks a long time ago at the Arts Council—she ran the place but didn't need to be there every day. So she had free time."

"Which she used to visit this man?"

Scott nodded vaguely. "I guess so."

Murdock waited. Drummed his fingers idly on the desk. "Okay. Next question is a delicate one."

"Just say it."

"Do you want to challenge it?"

Scott drew a deep, slow sigh. "No."

Behind the aviators, Murdock's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"She doesn't want to see me," Scott said. And took a great interest in staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry," Murdock said. So mechanical.

Scott looked up from the rug—Persian, irreplaceable, what with there not being a Persia anymore. And wondered if Murdock even really cared. If he was reading from some super lawyer script.

"Scott, talk to me. What do you need?"

Scott looked at Murdock. He got his second wind in that moment, and righted his posture. His eyes grew wide and the sad, drawn figure who had moments before lounged in the wingback was gone. Replaced with a younger, vibrant Scott Lang.

"I want to see the Taskmaster."

Murdock looked surprised. His lips were pursed in a loose circle. Then he nodded slowly. "Okay."

* * *

**Scott and Tony.**

It happened this way.

Scott and Murdock left the library. Reed Richards was in the foyer talking to Stark, in plainclothes, a white suit and black shirt. And Rogers, still in his Captain America suit but without the mask. Richards noticed Scott first and gently pulled away from his conversations with Stark and Rogers. With a cheap and easy demeanour, Richards smiled and asked how they'd gotten on.

"I want to see the Taskmaster," Scott said. "Where is he being held?"

Richard's demeanour changed. He looked over at Stark and Rogers. Slowly.

Stark said, "It's classified."

Something in Scott snapped. He got in close. Grabbed Stark by the lapels and shoved him against the wall.

"I have a right to know, God damn it."

"You need to back away, Sc—"

"That man there," Scott said and pointed at Rogers, "says I do, and I trust him with my life."

"Get your damn hands—"

Scott slammed Stark against the wall again. His face twisted into a horrible scowl.

"Where is he?"

Scott let go of Stark, who dusted his jacket off and maintained a scowl of his own. They locked eyes for a moment, two prideful alphas in the heat of battle. Scott felt a surge of adrenaline in that moment. One he hadn't felt since.

_Since the Killer Camaro? Doing the deed for the first time with that horrible trollop who's just left you out to dry?_

Stark pointed at him. Through gritted teeth and what Scott was sure was a considerable amount of anger being suppressed, he said, "Let's get one thing straight here. Ant-Man. You don't tell me what to do. Ever again. My money built this team, my money built this house. I make the rules around here, Lang—not you. Got it?"

"Tony."

They all looked at Reed Richards, who had never loomed in a place in his life, had never been or been seen to effect fright in the people he knew. Probably it was a by-product of having the dictator of dictators as his personal nemesis—which meant Richards played up his own essential harmlessness to compensate for that dark disposition—but everyone saw Reed Richards as a kindly and brilliant sort of paragon. The positive example. What To Do With Your Power. But here he loomed, looking by the Tiffany repro lamp at the foyer entrance, his arms folded across his chest, his face drawn in a thin and dismissive frown.

Richards said, "Give it a rest. The facility's almost done anyway."

Stark raised his arms and made for the stairs. "You can do the talking then," he said.

Scott went the opposite direction, with Murdock, Richards and Rogers in tow.

The Quinjet was already waiting for them on the lawn.

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	5. Tasks III

**Author's Note: **As you're shortly to find out, this chapter visits a place that, in the current Marvel books, is well-established. However, since our story is set at least a few years before that—in an ongoing and mercurial mission of mine to hammer out as definite a timeline for the Marvel Universe as can be done—while the facility is getting its finishing touches. Elsewhere we made reference once again to Frank Miller's Daredevil run in the 1980s, specifically the hugely influential #181, where Bullseye breaks out of Ryker's and in short order, murders the Kingpin's chief assassin, none other than Elektra. The idea is that our heroes and their system are learning from past mistakes. Or are they? We also tossed in an oblique reference to my own older story, _Behemoth & Leviathan_, which addresses in part my own conceptions about what Maria Hill did in Madripoor. But you don't have to read that one to get this. Unless you really want to.

* * *

**Scott and the Taskmaster III.**

**2000.**

Captain America piloted the Quinjet. Richards rode shotgun. Murdock and Scott sat in the back. The whole time, Scott stared at the Ant-Man helmet sitting in his lap. Featureless aluminium-vibranium alloy distorted his face as t reflected it. Sullen and old. That's how he looked. Certainly how he felt.

Reed Richards said, "So far the exact details of the project have been classified at all but the highest levels. It's by luck and professional courtesy from Nick Fury and the President that I even know about it."

"So what is it exactly?" Scott asked

Captain America said, "It's a prison."

Murdock was sitting next to Scott and explained it. "You remember a few years ago when Bullseye was in Ryker's? Went on national television and killed his interviewer. Ended up commandeering a helicopter to Manhattan, and later killed Elektra Natchios, who was working for Wilson Fisk at the time."

"Uh," Scott said. "Sure."

"Eventually," Richards said, "the powers that be determined Ryker's was insufficient on its own to the needs of an unfortunately expanding supervillain population. After Bullseye's escape, and especially after Baron Zemo and his group occupied Avengers Mansion some time ago, Congress decided they needed a new facility just for captive supervillains. This was last year. The new facility is on one of Rykers' adjoining islands."

"This place have a name?"

"The Raft," Richards said and looked out the windows, at the distant skyline. "They're calling it The Raft."

Scott was confused. "So where does someone get the money for this?"

Richards had to smile at that. "Fantastic Four Incorporated," he said. "In agreement with Damage Control, Stark Industries and some SHIELD discretionary money."

Scott sighed and looked out the window. "So you're putting them all in a cage."

"It's the only way," Captain America said. "The alternative is putting superpowered criminals in with the regular cellblock at Rykers. I'm not willing to see that happen."

"Agreed," Richards said and touched the satnav on the console. "Set her down, Steve."

Scott saw the facility from the window and kept his eyes on it as they landed. A slate grey building in two long, low lines. A radio tower at the western end, and a helipad on the east end, just above the water line.

Captain America was the first down the gantry. Then Richards. Then Murdock. Finally Scott.

The wind howled across the helipad. Murdock drew his jacket close. Scott tried to smooth his hair. Richards and Cap didn't seem bothered by the wind.

Ahead stood a line of SHIELD Agents. Spaced perfectly around what Scott guessed was the facility's only entrance. _Perfect agents_, he thought. _Dressed the same, armed the same. They even sort of look the same._

He shivered.

And another agent, a woman, standing in front of them and dressed like them. Short hair that tousled ever so slightly in the wind. Arms akimbo, and a dour, inflexible face staring straight at Captain America.

"Special Agent Hill," he said and offered his hand. "How was Madripoor?"

She turned without looking at him. "You would know."

Captain America smiled. Gestured toward Richards and the others. "We need to see one of your prisoners."

Agent Hill sighed. "You know the rules, Captain. No civilians."

Scott stepped forward. "Hi. Scott Lang. Astonishing Ant-Man in case you didn't know or needed a refresher. Very much not a civilian."

She looked at Murdock. "And you?"

Murdock nodded toward Scott. "Matt Murdock, Agent Hill. You've heard of me."

One of her eyebrows angled, sharply, evilly, Scott thought.

She merely said, "Follow me." And turned and walked in.

The immediate interior was plates of gleaming titanium plating which Hill explained were also lined with adamantium and laced with nano-fibre deterrent electrical fields which stopped escapees and neutralised any superpowers they may be manifesting at time of escape. Like a police officer, she spoke mechanically, from an operations guide she had long ago memorised. The effect was boredom.

Scott wasn't sure he believed her.

"At any rate," she said and led them further in. "We keep the prisoners heavily medicated, so the chances of superpower manifestation, let alone escape, are slim."

"Any general population inmates?" Murdock asked.

"No," Hill said. "Not yet anyway. Policy on that is still being decided, but as you know the previous directive was to house them in Ryker's, either in general population or isolation, depending on the nature of their crime. However there've been some issues with this, particularly regarding the repeated multiple murders in General Population."

Murdock said, "You mean Bullseye."

Hill stopped and looked at Murdock. He looked right back at her. "It's classified," she said. And started walking again.

The group came to a lift, which opened for them. Hill waited until everyone was in, then came in last and pressed the button for the subbasement.

"How many levels this thing have?" Scott asked.

"Eight. Your inmate is on the very bottom. We haven't even finished that part yet."

"And what if he escapes?"

Hill glared at Scott again. "He won't."

"If he does," Murdock said thoughtfully. "He'd have a hell of a fight on his hands."

The lift slowed. They all watched the doors slide open. Not a sound.

Ahead lay what Hill called the unfinished eighth level. Alloy aluminium panels lay in stacks at the far end, by a stylised block number 8 which took up the whole wall. Thin light-tracks lined the ceiling. The whole effect was of a clean room, Scott thought. One that hadn't gotten quite clean yet.

Quickly, his mind ran through all the clichés.

_Unfinished_, my ass, he thought. _There's no flickering light, there's no sense of dankness. This place is new, but it smacks of the unused. A cigar that's never been smoked._

"Standard procedure," Hill said, "is that no one goes any further without a super-powered SHIELD escort. I make no exception."

Captain America pushed past her. "If the Taskmaster can get past all of us, he deserves to escape. We'll be fine."

Hill gestured forward. "He's at the end of the hall. Number 195."

Murdock followed Richards down the hall. "Now what's the significance of that, Agent Hill?"

"Arbitrary numbers," she said. "When the inmates hear guards talking about cell numbers and the world outside, it fosters a sense of continuity, of a system they can memorise and therefore subvert. Randomisation mitigates this."

Richards nodded. "Fascinating."

Scott stopped at the door. Slate grey like the prison exterior, with a broad handle across the middle. He looked at Hill.

She produced a slim key card and pressed it to a rectangular scan pad above the handle.

The door popped back in place and hissed from the pneumatic release. Then slid to one side.

Scott stopped in the threshold. And stared.

Ahead the Taskmaster lounged in a cot, one arm propped on one knee, the other hand holding open a tattered copy of _Nova Express._

Scott kept his eyes on the Taskmaster and said, subdued, to Hill, "Why is he still in his suit?"

"The only bit of choice we give them. Policy is being revised to change this."

Scott frowned. And stepped in.

The Taskmaster, or the skull under which he hid, looked up over the top of _Nova Express._

"Why not wear the required uniform," Scott said.

"I like my suit, thank you very much."

"You hide behind it."

Taskmaster cocked his head and tossed _Nova Express_ away. "You should talk. Ant-Man."

"Why did you blow up a police precinct?"

"Why," Taskmaster said, "Does it matter?"

"Your explosion killed twelve cops. Injured fifty, not to mention the felons in the holding cells."

Taskmaster shook his head slowly. "Overall," he said. "Not so important."

Scott was unmoved. "And me?"

"You were interesting. I always thought so." The Taskmaster said it so matter-of-factly. Scott almost didn't believe him.

"You might have told me this a long time ago," Scott said. "What's wrong, Captain America not good enough for you?"

Taskmaster leant forward. The mask shifted; underneath he wore a thin smile. "You're better than the rest of them. Look at you, storming in here with your helmet tucked under your arm like you think you're Rommel. You like your life."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It's a thing," Taskmaster said. Leant back and sighed. "I remember when you and Spider-Man fought me. What a sad little man he is. I see things like that, you know. Body language."

"And yours?" Scott raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not scared of you," Taskmaster said. "Or Agent Hill, or her death glare."

"And you know why I'm here?"

Taskmaster shifted uncomfortably on the slab-cot. "What's with the interrogation, Lang? Just say it. Say, why did you want to teach me a lesson, Taskmaster. And then I'll say, because fulfilled my quarterly rivalry quota with the Avengers. Or something."

Scott waited.

"Ah, but you know," Taskmaster said and waggled his finger. "You know that this is what I do. That New York's Finest means no more to me than any other slug out there."

Scott cocked his head. It was an affectation—he didn't need to display his thoughts, such as they were. He cocked his head anyway. It made the Taskmaster look at him askance, but only for a moment.

Scott glanced around the cell, irritated. Somewhere, he had found a second authoritative wind. Maybe it was the Rommel comparison. Maybe it was simpler: that Richards and the rest stood back. That Scott was taking something in his own hands. For the first time this year…

Taskmaster leant forward. Scott imagined whatever his real face looked like, and that it must be smiling.

Taskmaster spoke. Even and slow, at first. Then every sentence took more venom in it. He was getting angrier, his voice fuller. If he really believed his own platform, he might've convinced Scott of it too. Or he might have been a master dissembler.

Standing there listening, his face stone and belying any credulity, Scott wasn't so sure.

"I'd heard your friend the cop had a little childish hatred for the super-powered set. Something he probably picked up after Ultron smashed his cruiser or Bullseye killed his buddy: something that turned all that police training on its side and made him a cuddly little firebrand with a chip on his shoulder. Something immature and half-assed, like all hatred. Do you know what I'm talking about, Lang? Your friend the cop, he doesn't fight for anything. He's a finger on the hand, you know, same as Stark and Richards out there. Instruments of a system they think works."

"You weren't always anti-authoritarian," Scott said. "What changed?"

Taskmaster shrugged. Underneath the skull-mask, he smiled. "I wanted to prove myself right. You just happened to be in the neighbourhood."

Scott grimaced. The Ant-Man helmet dropped to the floor. Then he was on the Taskmaster, grabbing him by the bunched tufts of the cape about his shoulders and hoisting him up. Barking like a dog cut loose.

Because in that instant it had all been made clear to Scott. Abundantly so.

_You're nothing, Scott. And the Taskmaster. Your fractured advisor. If he says it. It must be true. Right?_

"You shit!"

Scott slammed Taskmaster against the wall.

At the doorway, Hill drew her weapon.

"Wait," Richards said, and blocked her with an elongated arm. "Just wait."

This close, Scott just realised how tall he was. Or maybe just imposing. He had two inches on Scott and easily fifty more pounds. All of it muscle.

Scott swallowed a bit of bile at the back of his throat.

"You shitting liar," Scott said. "I remember the days when you would have sent me, Spider-Man, and the rest of the Avengers on a wild goose chase just so you could turn a quick buck! And now you're after a moral victory? I don't buy it, you shit. Not one god damned word. How about the truth before I shrink your mass-murderer balls."

Taskmaster laughed, quietly. "You needed it."

"Bullshit."

The skull mask shifted again. Underneath, the human face was scowling. Scowling so bad it hurt. "Look at you," he said. Quiet and pathological. "When she left you, I bet you just sat there and took it. Like a goddamn baby. So you tell me, Lang, who really lost that fight? Is that what Rogers teaches you? To roll over and die?"

Scott frowned.

He'd used the ankle metaphor before. On Peggy.

"Did she even love you?"

Scott screamed. And punched Taskmaster in the face.

"Could be worse," Taskmaster said, getting to one knee and wiping his mouth for blood. "You could be boring. 'Course if you were, she might have stayed with you."

Scott kicked him, again in the face. Taskmaster rolled with it, but Scott caught him and hauled him upright anyway. Then Scott got an idea.

He grabbed Taskmaster's hands. And just.

Focused.

Years ago, when being a horror junkie was all there was to his life and drive-ins were double-headers for a fiver, he'd gone through a Stephen King phase. King's first book, especially, he read in one night and it stayed with him after all these years. The story about the repressed little girl who telekinetically burned down her high school prom.

_(Flex)_

That was how she did it.

Scott grimaced.

_Flex_.

He looked at the Taskmaster's hands, broad palms and tapered fingers, even when covered by white pirate gloves. Elegant, actually, he had to admit.

Elegant and shrinking.

Scott kept his grimace and glanced at Taskmaster.

Who was too horrified at the sight to do anything but stare. Finally, he screamed.

"Ahhh, you—!"

And he kept screaming.

Scott's eyes narrowed. He could do it. He could shrink these hands into nothingness, he could shrink them down to useless stumps and that would be the end for the marvellous exploits of the Taskmaster.

_Down_, he thought, and the hands got smaller.

_Down and down and down._

"You see this?" Scott said. "I know this hurts. Muscle contractures, tendons snapping. And who knows what Pym particles do to the bones when they're not applied across the entire physical template. Pym taught me this much. What did you say at the precinct? Oh yeah: 'couldn't say for sure. Never experienced it.'"

Taskmaster fell to his knees, crying out, writhing in pain. Groaning like a stuck pig.

Scott smiled.

And stopped.

_Flex_.

The hands were growing now. Reassuming their normal size: the broad hands and tapered fingers he'd seen just a moment before. He judged how close he was to their original form by the Taskmaster's diminished bleating.

Finally, he stopped. Stepped away.

Taskmaster pulled his hands in close, rubbing each of them. Still moaning there on the floor.

"The pain of losing something you love," Scott said. "Now you know."

The Taskmaster was still moaning as Scott turned away.

"Next time," Scott said and cracked his knuckles. "It'll be your head."

The door slid shut with a long wheeze—air filling the side pockets again.

The rest were waiting for him a few meters away. Scott stopped in front of Agent Hill. Expressionless, he said, "You promise me that this piece of shit rots."

* * *

**Scott and Matt Murdock II.**

**2000.**

They were having lunch in Murdock's conference room, a spacious rectangle off his office's main lobby which, or so Murdock said, his old secretary had had furnished by the angular standards of Georgian architecture. Murdock smiled, and somewhat oddly, Scott thought, as he recounted the story.

"Anyway, I told her, Karen, decorate it however you like if it's so important to you, Foggy will help you. And she said, no no, I know you won't be able to see it, but Matt, I'm gonna make you wish you could—at which point, you know, I said, Karen dear, all I care about is your happiness. It was a rare happy moment for me, Scott. I'll admit that."

"You don't get happy moments anymore?"

"Not really."

Scott looked down at his lunch, half-eaten chicken tandoori. Murdock sipped from his mug full of Ceylon.

"You loved her," Scott said. "Very much. I can tell."

Murdock nodded vaguely. His élan from a moment ago seemed gone, diminished in his own remembrance of this woman. "Yes. She meant the world to me."

Scott cocked his head. "Uh, whatever happened to her?"

One of Murdock's eyes rose and fell and he took a deep breath. Then he looked away. The bay window on the far end of the table stared out at the Wyndham Garden Hotel. Scott looked at Murdock, looking like he was looking at it.

Scott glanced at the window. Back at Murdock.

"She died," Murdock said. "Few months ago."

"Oh shit," Scott said and wiped his face. Sighed a deep, haggard sigh. "I'm sorry. You've been wasting your time on me and your girlfriend was out there—"

"Scott."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "You should never have gotten involved. You were dealing with your own thing and it—it just wasn't right of me to hire you on."

"Stop it," Murdock said. "You're not one for self-loathing, Scott. And on a lighter note, you didn't hire me. Richards did."

Scott chuckled. "Guess you're right."

"There you go," Murdock said. "Keeping that in mind, there was actually a reason I asked you down here instead of my usual salutary lunch."

"Yeah?"

"This phase of your case is finished. Now, it's entirely possible that Peggy might push for sole custody. I wanted to make sure you understood that."

"I do."

"Okay," Murdock said. "So we'll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, you've got shared custody. Ordinarily, I'd tell you what I tell most of the parents that come in here, the ones that end up on the short end of the custody battle, they're down in the dumps, at the end of their ropes—I've got other euphemisms, but you get the point. Most of them don't realise what they had until they no longer have it, which is why I encourage the 'enjoy the time you do have with your offspring' speech."

Scott frowned. Confused.

"But you're not like them," Murdock said. "I know you, and I know Reed Richards' character judgment well enough. So the next step from here is rehabilitation."

Scott was thoughtful for a long moment. "How, uh." He cleared his throat. "Where do I start? I mean…"

Scott leant back in his chair.

"Learn about yourself. Or re-learn as the case may be. Now you've got that chance and I hope you take it."

Scott was frozen, caught between astonishment and bemusement. "Yeah," he said and cracked smile. "Cap said the same thing to me. Few months ago."

Murdock smiled. "Maybe he was onto something. Now, I don't know divorce is like, but I understand loss. I understand pain. I think you do too, which is why I took this case and why I sent Richards a fee waiver this morning."

Scott's jaw slackened. "What?"

"You were interesting," Murdock said. "And I don't want your money. Or Richards'."

Scott smiled thinly.

"Okay," he said. "I've been bearing out my life story to you for months. Now, you talk."

Murdock was silent. Gathering his thoughts maybe. "Richards was right about you," he said with a cocked eye." Then he spoke, his voice calm and passionate. "I've loved…_two_ women in my life. I lost both of them to a murdering psychopath. And I spent a long time trying to get back to normal."

Scott thought about it. He was finally starting to put it together.

Murdock was quieter: "I think you and I are the same, Scott. I think you're in pain, but you're burying it. Keep burying it and it'll kill you. For whatever reason, I think the Taskmaster wanted to show you how to face your pain. And now you can. Your case is settled. If you choose, you'll never have to see her again. The world, Scott, is right there. In that hand."

Scott frowned. "How did you get over them?"

"Hm?"

"Those women," Scott said. "How did you, um, come to terms with what happened to them?"

Murdock's eyebrows rose and fell again, this time in unison. He plucked the blood-red aviators from his face. Murdock's eyes, bleary, pasty, scarred at the crows' feet from some trauma—probably the thing that made him blind in the first place, Scott guessed—looked straight into Scott's eyes.

"I wanted you to see me for this," Murdock said. "To prove to you that I am being one hundred percent honest with you. I haven't. Gotten over them. Not even a little bit. But I will. Someday the pain will pass, or lessen. And someday, far in the future, yours will too."

Scott looked confused. Confused and in pain.

"Yeah," he said and it was barely a whisper.

Murdock was about to say something, but his desk phone lit up and let out a shrill beep. He pressed the speaker button and said, "Yes?"

"I'm back from lunch, Matt. Donald Humboldt left a message for you, said he wanted your reply ASAP on an e-mail he just sent you."

"That's odd," Murdock said, and frowned. "Thank you, Dakota."

He depressed the speaker button and began typing away on his computer. "Ah," he said. "There." Clicked another button, and a sheet slid out of the printer a moment later. The specialised printer they'd invented for the blind, the ones that converted ASCII into Braille as it printed.

_Blind people_, Scott thought.

And watched Murdock's fingers slide over the raised lettering. Murdock's frown deepened.

Scott said, "What is it?"

Murdock slid the aviators back on and pressed the phone's speaker button. "Dakota?"

"Yes?"

"Get the car."

* * *

**Scott and Matt Murdock III.**

**2001.**

Months ago, and for years previous, Scott and Peggy Lang had lived in an obscenely spacious apartment on the Upper West Side. It had been a good life, if pedestrian. Routine, by the book, ordinary. Boring.

Small wonder that he reached out to the Avengers. Or more precisely, gladly took up the offer of part-time membership when Stark'd said they were low on members. What else was there to do? He was working for Stark already anyway, bringing his electronics department up to, and beyond, speed. And he'd had enough experience with Pym and the Ant-Man suit anyway.

Being an Avenger made sense.

Yet there was a pang of dread, somewhere deep in him.

When Murdock's secretary, the one in the fiery red hair and black leather jacket, parked the car. When Murdock stormed up the front steps and down the front hallway.

When he commanded the landlord to give him the key to Apartment 47.

And the whole time Scott followed him up there. Noting with increasing—well, weirdness, Scott thought—how Murdock was walking without his usual slow manner.

_He's not even clacking his cane._

Murdock stopped at the door and slid the key into the lock.

"What are you doing?" Scott was somewhere between amazement and confusion. His usual, these days.

Murdock said nothing. Pushed the door open with the bottom of his cane. Switched on the lights.

Scott's jaw slackened.

A suitcase—Scott's—sitting in the middle of the living room, a page of legal pad taped to the top of it and written in her hand.

No furniture. No decorations. The crown moulding around the ceilings and the white entablatures above the windows, set against beige wall paint. Her idea. Back during college when she'd gone crazy for Georgian architecture after a trip to Mount Vernon.

He looked around.

At the suitcase. He plucked the note off and read it to himself.

_Scott—I've talked it over with Donald and Blake and I'm pursuing full custody. It's what's best for Cassie. We've moved out to Blake's place in Brooklyn. The suitcase and everything inside is yours, left over from what you didn't take the last time you stormed in. Bye._

Scott looked back at Murdock, still standing there in the doorway.

Murdock was looking right back at him.

Scott sighed. Swallowed the pool of saliva at the back of his throat.

Murdock crossed his arms and frowned.

"What?"

Murdock looked over the rims of the aviators. "Nothing."

Scott rolled his eyes and turned away. Looked around the emptiness.

Back at Murdock.

"She's going to go for full custody," he said.

"Scott—"

"Don't." Scott said. Pointed and paced around some more. "Just don't." More silence. More pacing. More anger swelling up through Scott.

Murdock took the aviators off and slid them into his jacket pocket. Waited.

Scott sat cross-legged on the floor. Hunched over, his arms lazy and motionless at his sides.

"If she does," Scott said. "Can you help me?"

Murdock leant away from the doorjamb and said, "I guarantee it."

* * *

**_Continued..._**


	6. Kickers

**Author's Note: **As with the Taskmaster's cell number at The Raft last chapter, which referred to his debut in _Avengers_ #195, Leonard Samson's address and office number refer first to the issue in which he appeared, and then to the year: in this case, _Incredible Hulk_ #141 (1971). More of an effort, then, on my part to establish little corners of New York out of which our heroes live and operate, as well as a bit of a Easter Egg hunt for you, dear readers. Something that's plagued my writing ever since I took this up back in 2004.

Anyway. One of the issues with the setting and time-frame of this story was wrangling together all the various parts of Marvel history that were going on circa 2000. A previous draft mentioned 'some trouble with Kang', which is an _Avengers Forever_ reference. Below, we made reference to the Fantastic Four's time at Pier 4—and their return to the Baxter Building (the end of the Pier 4 days and the return to the Baxter Building can be found in _Fantastic Four_ vol. 3, 35-36 & 39, by Carlos Pacheco). Our sense of the Baxter Building and the Fantastic Store comes primarily from Mark Waid's now-sadly overlooked run on the quartet, and a particular story of his called 'Authoritative Action', which begins nowhere else but the gift shoppe. Here, as there, I've tried to adopt as much of the space age élan that so characterised the book under Waid. The narration for the Fantastic Four's holoprojection comes in part from _Star Trek_'s usual opening narration: the idea is that these two outposts of optimistic sci-fi complement each other in tone and scope (next time, Fantastic Four meets _Doctor Who_!). Also, I've battled for years over finding a suitable use for Sue Storm, aside from eye candy and the voice of token disapproval. Other FF stories I've written have somewhat consciously put her on the fringe because I wasn't sure what to do with her: here I think I've finally found a niche. The heart and soul role. Could have gone to Johnny, could have gone to Ben or even Reed (who we've used extensively already, so that was right out). Using Sue was more of a challenge. I'm still not as comfortable with her as I'd like to be, but I guess if there's a point to this story, it's about discomfort, and the natural barriers between people. And how those can be broken.

* * *

**Scott and Steve Rogers.**

**2001.**

Scott stayed at the Baxter Building through Christmas and into the New Year. It took an act of God for Peggy to let him see Cassie for the holiday. Scott saved it by saying he didn't want to argue and that all he wanted was to give Cassie her gifts and maybe some of Sue's delicious turkey dinner and then Peggy could take possession once more. Possession. His words.

He actually smiled a bit when he heard Peggy sigh through the phone.

"Noon," she said. "And I'll pick her up at six."

Christmas had gone well. Scott got her a bicycle and Dr Seuss' Greatest Hits—a box set of his big books; The Lorax and the Grinch, and Horton and the Red Fish. Cassie got him a necktie with the Fantastic Four logo in little slants across a blue field. He smiled and asked "where did you get this?" and she said, "Mom got it for you a long time ago, she found it a few months back and saved it, said you might appreciate it."

And he did. So too did Reed and Sue, who indeed had been reminded of the times they'd spent with Scott years before.

It was like old times. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, Scott, Ben and Johnny took Franklin down to Times Square to see the ball drop. Reed and Sue stayed in, with Reed's liquor cabinet and Sue's Miles Davis collection to accompany.

"All the family together," Sue said, later that night over eggnog and the fireplace in the lounge. "I'm glad you stayed with us, Scott."

Scott was three eggnogs deep. So was Reed. Together they stood by the window staring out at the winter's snow whirling through Manhattan. "So am I," Reed said.

So it was nice. The time he spent with the Fantastic Four and their idyllic little urban life. _There was laughter and childish mirth_, he thought. Scott taught Franklin about computers. Franklin taught Scott about Galactus.

It ended shortly after the New Year.

When Captain America visited the Baxter Building.

Not his first time in the building but one of the most surreal. Certainly the first time he'd ever stopped to look at their public side. The celebrities the public loved.

He might have flown the Quinjet and landed on the roof, dressed like the flag, the shield slung strapping and proud around tall and straight shoulders. _The model of heroism_, the _Daily Bugle_ once called him.

As it was, Steve Rogers, anonymous to anyone who wasn't looking for him, walked the length of Fifth Avenue. Right out the Mansion's front door and down the street, until he hit the Public Library at 41st and followed the hook up to Madison.

And there it was. The building shone on an otherwise grim, drizzling day. Recently rebuilt, or so Rogers heard. Built in space and then lowered to the site of the former building.

The ground floor housed the Fantastic Store, the gift shoppe through which merchandise ran, the profits going to Richards' research and the upkeep of Fantastic Four, Inc., of which Susan Storm was the chief executive.

No one noticed him. The beauty of civilian clothes: trousers, boots, a drab grey hoodie and a dark brown motorcycle jacket over that.

He had to smile that that. No one knew him.

He breathed deep and cocked his head at a row of Johnny Storm's headshots on the east wall.

He didn't even have a suitable cognate for what he was seeing. The far wall lined with Warhol quarter prints of each of the Four. Plush toys of each of the Four. in open-end boxes and display cases underneath. Action figures. Karate-chop Human Torch. Fist-of-Fury Thing. Super-stretch Mr Fantastic. An Invisible Woman and She-Hulk twin pack—'women warriors', it read.

And overhead, he heard a computer's voice narrating the story of the Four. He turned away from the action figures, to the holo-display at the centre of the store, shuddering and brilliant as it dramatised their creation:

'…Bombarded by cosmic rays, which transformed their bodies—fantastically!—Dr Richards and his family returned to Earth where they decided to use their newfound talents for the good of mankind, and became-The Fantastic Four! Explorers of the Unknown! Challengers of Tomorrow! Here in the Baxter Building, in the heart of New York City, Dr Reed Richards and his family live and work, exploring new worlds, new civilisations, and making the world a safer place…"

Rogers smiled and turned away.

The rest of the shoppers stayed, entranced. High school and elementary student groups on day-trips. University students with clipboards, eager to pick Richards' brain on their professor's latest tenure-attempt. Looky-loos eager for a peak at the real-life Ben Grimm. Girls eager for Johnny Storm to come strolling out and sign a photo of himself for them or just to brush past them. And rural and suburban types on their first trip to Manhattan—and where better to go first than the headquarters of the world-famous Fantastic Four.

This was important, he thought.

_Showing them we're not monsters. That we don't have to hide._

"Captain."

The voice was calm and pleasant, from somewhere in front of him. He looked around, surreptitious for a moment, and then stopped.

"Mrs. Richards," he said with a fond little sigh. Slid his hands into his jacket pockets.

A meter ahead of him, she materialised. Or became visible. Susan Storm nee Richards. Her hair pinned high and smart on her head. Brilliant blue eyes locked on his. An easy and agreeable smile. Her arms folded across her chest. Wearing grey trousers and smart heels and a rich black turtleneck.

He met her handshake and said, "Please, call me Steve."

"If you insist," Sue said and smiled. "Now what can we do for you?"

Rogers checked a thumb over his shoulder. "You're not worried about being seen?"

She waved a hand. "I relish it, but I imagine you don't want to draw attention to yourself. Otherwise, you'd have come here in your suit, yes?"

"Yes," he said. Glanced over his shoulder. The tour groups and looky-loos were still enraptured in the holoprojection. He looked back to Sue. "I had some time to spare. I thought I'd reacquaint myself with the Baxter Building."

She laughed. "You and me both. So what can we do for you, Captain?"

"Well, I've come to talk to Scott. Can we go upstairs?"

"Sure," Sue said and turned. The elevator bank lay three meters ahead, pressed into a smooth wall of Connemara marble, deep green against the gift shoppe's blue and white motif. Set into the marble, at Susan's own height, was a thin black panel, with a single red eye staring out.

She leant in front of it and waited for the beam to recognise her iris.

"Reed saw _2001_ last week," she said. "Frankly, I was surprised he hadn't seen it before, but Johnny insisted it was right up Reed's alley. Anyway, he's modelled this week's security programs, as you might imagine, after HAL 9000. Franklin got a kick out of it."

The doors pinged open, and a small flat voice said, 'Welcome, Missus Richards'. Rogers stepped in dutifully after her.

Rogers said, "So how do you like being back?"

Sue gave a half-shrug. "I like it fine. This is home, you know. The pier was terrific, we did some great work there, but this—this is where we belong. Franklin loves it here, the boys love it. We do the most good here."

"I'm glad," Rogers said with a smile. "The world needs the Fantastic Four, and the Fantastic Four need the Baxter Building."

"That's very true," Sue said. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"You said you're here to see Scott. May I ask why?"

Rogers smiled. Let out a quiet chuckle and glanced at the floor. It was a feigned sort of bashfulness, an act he acquired a long time ago. It put his friends at ease. And his enemies on edge.

"I want him to be an Avenger."

"Again?"

"Yes," Rogers said. "Full-time."

The doors slid open.

The lounge was bigger than it seemed. Bigger than Rogers remembered. Walls that doubled as windows, but for foot-high bases. A spiral staircase in the centre of the room. Furniture to match dim beige carpet and angular brown fixtures. A low coffee table flanked by davenports in rich brown, and a matching Eames chair at the head.

Sue slung her hands on her hips and said, "We did a bit of repurposing, as you can see. I tried to keep the original look and spirit of the public spaces, the ones our visitors see when they come up here. Of course we let everyone designs their own rooms: you'd love Ben's, he's come into these fascinating posters and prints from the war, really spectacular. And of course Johnny's is a mess, but he insisted on his own space. Reed and I did our quarters in an Art Deco style, black and white."

"It looks great, Susan." Rogers folded his arms across his chest. "Very much you."

"Coffee?" Susan asked.

"Oh yes, please," Rogers said and sank into the Eames chair.

"HERBIE," Sue said and looked at the ceiling. "Two coffees, please. You remember how Captain America likes his, yes?"

"Of course," the room said. A pleasant voice, not unlike, Rogers thought, the one in the elevator.

"Let me guess," Rogers said. "You took Reed's service robot and wired his algorithms throughout? Giving you hands-free amenities."

Susan smiled. "Why aren't you on this team?"

She looked ahead at the spiral staircase, at the legs bouncing down, taking the shape of a man.

Scott. In the Ant-Man suit, with the helmet stuck under one arm. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Sue and Rogers

"Oh Sue, hi," he said. He stepped forward as Rogers stood and met his handshake. "What, ah, brings you here, Steve?"

"Well, you, Scott. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I've been talking to Tony and Clint."

Sue glanced between them. "I'll go, ah, see what's become of your coffee, Steve." Then she was gone. Turning away and invisible all in the same move.

Scott's eyes narrowed as he listened. Bent down and put the Ant-Man helmet on the coffee-table gingerly. "So how is Tony? Still upset about me throwing him into the wall?"

"He's fine," Rogers said and waved a hand. "You know Tony."

Scott cocked an eye. Muttered, "Yeah, we all know Tony."

"We'd like you to become an Avenger," Rogers said.

Scott looked up at him. Silent. Confused.

"Full-time," Rogers said. "Tony says your old position at Stark Industries is yours if you want it. You can live at the Mansion, come and go as you please."

Scott sighed. Kept the narrow, glazed look. He sunk slowly into the davenport. His mouth hung open.

He was thinking. Rogers saw it.

"Um," Scott said. Swallowed a lump of saliva at the back of his throat. "What, uh, what about Cassie? My visitations?"

Rogers was enthusiastic about that. He threw his hand out in a wide flail, the old come-on-down. "We'd love to have her. If your wife and Judge Coffin agree to it, of course."

"I don't want to impose," Scott said. Locked steady and apologetic blue eyes onto Rogers. "Really."

Rogers stood and patted Scott's shoulder. "It's no imposition. Do you remember what I told you last summer? The Avengers need Ant-Man. We need Scott Lang."

He slouched deeper into the davenport.

"Um. Can I—I mean, I don't want to seem ungrateful, Steve. Can I think about this?"

"Of course," Rogers said. "Take as long as you need. I'm always around."

Rogers stood and turned for the elevator. The doors opened for him, and said, 'Welcome back, Captain America'.

He laid a hand on the jamb, and looked back. "Thank you for your hospitality, Sue. Tell Reed let's do dinner this week."

Then he was in the elevator. The doors shut. And he was gone.

Scott stared at the floor for a long moment.

Out at the skyline, the top of Madison Avenue staring back at him.

At the spiral staircase in the centre of the room.

"Sue?"

She half-materialised on the landing.

"What do you think?" he asked.

She gave him half of a smile. Sad and joyful. The way one looks back and looks forward. _Janus_, Scott thought. And wondered where he knew the name.

"You mean not to go," she said.

"I don't know what I want to do," he said, still staring at the floor. Unoffencive beige berber. He looked up at her, his face drawn and calm. "I know I can't stay here forever."

Sue glanced out the window slyly. "Scott, you know you can stay here as long as you like."

"For how long?" he said. "Until the next time-travelling idiot blows through town? Until Victor gets clever?"

"We could use the manpower."

"But not the extra weight. You—Sue, you've got a family here. One I can't pretend to impose on."

Sue sat next to him. Narrowed her eyes.

"Where's this coming from?"

He frowned. "What?"

"We both know you wouldn't be imposing," she said. "Franklin loves you. Johnny loves having another set of hands in the shop. And I know Reed seems like he refers solitude when he's in the lab, but—Scott, you help us out."

"The world famous Fantastic Four," Scott said and breathed deep. "You don't need my help."

"We choose to accept it, Scott. It's a matter of free will. Steve and the Avengers choose to accept it as well. Just because one person decided to do without you doesn't mean we have. So I mean it when I say you can stay here as long as you like. We can put fives on the uniforms. We can help you."

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Staring at the floor again.

He said, "Why can't I be happy?"

Sue waited. Frowned. Looked away, as if searching for distant and invisible answer. She smiled a bit at the irony. Looked back to Scott and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You know," she said. "When we came back to Earth. After the accident. We woke up in a field. A field." She chortled. "And then other things happened. The hospital, the hearings, but all that was peripheral."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm trying to prove a point," she said. "When we were in the hospital, Reed came to my room one day—they told us all not to move, that no one could be sure what would happen, if our legs would snap off or if Johnny got too excited and took the ICU up in flames. We came home a few days later. He knelt beside my bed and he told me—he said he'd made a mess of our lives, that he was truly sorry, and that he was going to spend the rest of his life making up for it."

Scott was looking at her now. Listening intently. This was part of the story he hadn't heard. Not in a very long time, and certainly not from Sue herself.

"And?"

She smiled fondly. "I told him he didn't need to apologise. That what happened was a marvellous thing. A gift." Then she looked at Scott. "I told him I loved him. And that just because a terrible thing happened to us, it didn't mean our lives were over. We could still do good. We could still be a family."

Scott sniffled. Wiped his face and looked offhanded at the Ant-Man helmet, sitting next to him and catching some of the gleam of the afternoon sun through the windows.

He looked at Sue. And she looked right back.

"Okay," he said.

* * *

**Scott and Reed.**

**2001.**

Noon of a spring day. The sun stuck high in the sky and beating down on Manhattan. Enshrining all the skyscrapers, Liberty Island, the rivers. On the street, a cold gust barrelled down Fifth Avenue. Sitting in the passenger's seat of Reed's Mercedes, Scott felt it. Swore he could. When he looked out the window and saw hunched bodies, heads staring at the sidewalk as they went about their days, yes, he knew it.

He found himself missing Coral Gables. For once.

Missing the sun and the ocean and the light. The way you threw a towel on the sand and how if you sat for too long it moulded to every mound in your ass. How the sand worked its way inside your trunks. _Not an altogether unpleasant feeling_, he thought and cracked a smile.

The way the sun beamed off the water. And the bodies. Guys with something to prove, showing off their Bowflexes. Girls showing off their vegan diets and tanning salons. Volleyball, sandcastles, Mai Tais.

The way Peggy looked in her old two-piece, rising slowly from the water and scanning the beach till she found sight of him, and waving, her arm sliding through the air, a human windshield wiper, brisk and firm. How the sight of her diving into the deep parts or even just walking her beach walk, a slow, seductive sort of swing she knew turned heads, gave him a tickle the sand in his pants didn't.

He'd never been that free with her. Maybe it was too late.

_I miss that_, he thought. Very matter of factly. Maybe he didn't miss Florida so much as he missed Peggy. Maybe it was just starting to sink in, in some meaningful way. _Maybe_, he thought again.

The smell of her. Chlorine and Chanel No. 5. The feel of her. The way she smiled, the way she gasped and grabbed his arm at the sight of the alien bursting out of John Hurt's stomach. What a night. The way he'd hold her close,, bring her in and smell her hair and even cop an inadvertent feel, his hands warm and still on her breasts.

He looked out the window. The Mercedes was doing about 35. _Speed limit_, he thought. _Boring. Not a lot of traffic, though, for a Saturday_. He sighed.

_Maybe life goes on_, he thought. _Start taking Murdock and Steve's advice for good this time instead of using it to spend a weekend with praying mantises. Have a good life and believe that you can. Owe yourself some respect. Everyone's doing it these days, why yes-sirree. The heroin of optimism. And the withdrawal of life._

He frowned. Maybe too grim, that.

He supposed he had been pretty down. Beaten, lessened. Made to look a fool, to be less hurtful about it.

Something strange had happened in the lounge, those days ago when Steve Rogers asked him to be an Avenger again. The anger melted away. Like he was upset before—certainly there had been anger. Most of it directed at Peggy. Some of it even directed at Reed and Sue, for reasons he no longer remembered. But all that melted away that day. He didn't have the qits to see it. Come Be An Avenger. And why not?

A chance to build a meaningful life away from freeloading at the Baxter Building any longer. To do some important work with important people.

And to make a comfortable life for Cassie.

That was the first thing.

He'd spent so long running. Trying to find meaning in the most impossible places. Among the mantises and at the Raft.

Hmm.

The Taskmaster had tried to teach him a lesson, a fractured fairytale. So had Steve and Murdock and Richards. Advice from all the right quarters, so what was there to be angry about?

He was rudderless. Had been rudderless. Would probably continue being without rudder. That was it. He let out a breath. Rudderless. Peggy had strip-mined the ship, and the Taskmaster had taken it off-course, trying to goad him into righteous anger. Which wasn't productive.

Captain America had given Scott a rudder again. And other metaphors.

_And if Captain America believes it_, he thought, _so can I._

He'd lost his family. Or had it reapportioned into something like a family. Now he was being given a chance to rectify that. Not to make up for old times, but to make new times.

_Life goes on_, he thought again.

Reed stopped the Mercedes and looked out his window. The gates to the Mansion, wrought iron and the colour of deep gold, swung open, a noiseless herald. Scott's eyes narrowed. He pursed his lips. Apprehensive. unsure. Sure. He'd been here plenty of times. But.

Never like this. Not one to one, and not for good.

_But it is for good. Isn't it._

Scott was still looking at the Mansion.

"I have to go," he said. "Don't I."

Reed was silent for a minute. Then he smiled kindly, sadly. "I could make a phone-call and we could be at Muir Island by midnight. Or embrace the principles of Thoreau in the Savage Land."

Scott chuckled.

Then Reed was more serious. "You've gone through a tough thing. I sympathise, Scott, I really do, even though I lack a full understanding. There's something I was thinking of giving you but there's no way I can without inviting at least a measure of your disdain."

"What is it?"

Reed plucked a card from his jacket pocked, clasped between his index and middle fingers. Held the face out so Scott could read it.

Reed looked at the card, imprecise and unsold on his own idea. "He's an old friend, a psychiatrist. Very good. One of the best. I don't mean to tell you what to do, but I wanted to offer his services. He's helped me and Sue many times before, and I thought perhaps you would benefit from his services."

Scott took the card.

He thought of Steve's advice.

And he looked at it.

Leonard Samson, Psy.D  
1971 N Broadway, # 141  
New York NY 10023  
By Appt Only

Scott smiled.

"Thank you, Reed" he said.

Reed gave a tentative and comforting smile.

Then Scott was out. Opening the back door. Fetching his rollaway from the backseat and jaywalking over. He stopped in the middle and looked back at Reed: leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest, his blue suit and black turtleneck, his hair tousling in the breeze, his face almost locked in a prideful smile.

Scott yelled, "Coming in?"

Reed cocked an eye and leant away. Strolled across the street, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging leisurely at his side.

Scott looked at the front doors, twin oak behemoths lined with impossible science to deter Masters of Evil, Infinity Gauntlets, Skrulls, Nukes, Iron Mongers…and the Avengers that fought them.

At the top of the steps, Jarvis was waiting, a silver platter in one hand.

Scott remembered Peggy again.

There was love there once. Suppose that was corny, but it was true, like most corny things. Love, even the sloppy kind, soaked in sweat and lust and seat cushions and clothes, tripped teenage hormones operating at max. Maybe that's all they ever had, he and Peggy, but it was nice. No denial. It was nice and it was rare and it was treasured.

And the other stuff. Boeing and MIT and prison, but all that was peripheral.

There was a carnival once in Coral Gables. He and Peggy on the Ferris wheel, and getting stuck at the top when the damned thing broke down, rusted and sparking to a halt with their car so luckily stuck at the top. They stared out at the ocean for an hour before the technicians got the thing working again.

She laid her head on his shoulder and said she loved him and always had.

He kissed her and said the same thing. And proved the point an hour later by winning her Wubzy, the comically-oversized teddy bear, from the bottle shot game.

He missed that Ferris wheel.

_I swear, we saw fucking Italy from that thing._

So they'd fallen in love. Then other things happened. A job, a life, a child. The bravest one you'd ever know. Fifteen years away from the Ferris wheel, he thought, that becomes a family Peggy decides to keep for herself.

A job. A life. A family.

Friends that he cared about and who cared for him.

_That's the kicker._

He looked ahead and made himself smile.

Stark came out, a leisurely step to him, a smile on his face and a bottle of Perrier in one hand. Now Clint, with a bottle of Stella in one hand and another he handed out to Scott. Steve Rogers hovered near the back, almost out of sight. Scott swore he saw a smile there anyway.

Reed joined Scott and patted him on the back.

Together they went in, to see what lay ahead.

* * *

_**The End.**_

_**August 2010-March 2011**_


End file.
